Double Action Western v24 n03 [1957-02]

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“,

DOUBLE ACTION

ESTERN

jz l Volume 24 February, 1957 Number 3
i4 Featured Novel
THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL

by Wallace McKinley ....... osoen 6

The killing of Guy Malone was rather neatly done, and
Pello and Renny had fair enough reason to think they were
going to get away with it. But that was before Ezra Baxter
and Joan Davenport showed up, but fated to be brought
together in the maze of danger and sudden death!

Short Stories and Features

PESANA (Specia Reature): -oona e Svein EA Harold Gluck 41
There never was such a country — but there might have been ... IF!

AUP ALY A DAN VOISE). ccs. ee ae r ee ees Edward Garner 49
Who would have thought the bandits’ plan would be upset by a chawin’ man?

BETTER THAN NATURAL ...................++.++0+++s4 Kenneth Ganz 50
John Ladd learned the special duty of the badge-packer ..., .

CHANTOM HOOVES aaaea eg ce ee pena oe AF Peter Norcross 61
Harry Doyle had schemed too well; now he had to give himself away!

LET’S STEAL A COW (Special Feature) ...............0.05. Lee Thomas 72
The rustler isn’t a thing of the past; he still operates today!

GUNSMOKE REDEMPTION ....................05. William F. Schwartz 76
Juan Murphy had been an underdog; now he was back. Wearing guns!

ROBER1 W. LOWNDES, Edsor WILL LUTON, Art Director

MARIE ANTOINETTE PARK, Asso. Ed. CLIFF CAMPBELL, Asso. Ed.

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN, February, 1957 published bi-monthly by COLUMBIA PUBLICATIONS, INC., 1
Appleton st tfulyoke Mass, Wditorial and executive offices, 241 Church St., New York 13. N. Y. Eniered as
second class matter at the post office at Holyoke, Mass. Entire contents copyright 1956 by Columbia Publica-
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dressed envelope for their return if found unavailable for acceptance, The publishers will exercise care în the
handling of unsolicited manuscripts. but assume no responsibility for thelr return, Title registered in U. &
Patent Ofiices. Printed in the U. S. A

4

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Se a,

The girl was resisting
TFarley’s advances, fu-
tiley.

THE GIRL

Ezra Baxter showed up at Leroy’s
Corner too Jate to save his friend,
Guy Malone — but in time to upset
a pair of murderers’ plans. But he
wasn’t alone on the deadly trail to
justice — there was a girl also look«
ing for Mike Renny, and Baxter
wondered why. Could it be that
Joan Davenport was Renny’s sweets
heart?

ON BOOTHILL TRAIL

by WALLACE McKINLEY

HALF-BREED trapper named
A Willie Feather spent a winter

high on the slopes of Mount
Robson; when spring came he went
down to his base camp at the river,
loaded his canoe with supplies, and pad-
dled downstream across the border to
Leroy’s Corner, in the State of Saskat-
chewan.

But he brought no furs.

He brought money, and a lot more
of it than he’d possessed six months
earlier. More than he’d ever had before.
Not gold, either; genuine folding mon-
ey in dollar and ten-dollar bills. A thing
like that was bound to be noticed in a
place like Leroy’s Corner.

It was noticed by Mike Renny,
whose face cracked in a grin at this
luck. He was still grinning when he
strolled into the police office, helped
himself to a chair, and squinted his
colorless eyes at Sergeant Pello, who sat
with his big booted feet propped on an
untidy desk.

“What’s so funny?” Pello wanted
to know.

“The way things happen,” Mike
Renny said. “Bill, this’s our lucky day.
Willie Feather is in town an’ spendin’
money like it grew on trees.”

“His money grows on animals,” the
sergeant said. “I guess he had a good
season, huh?”

“Youre wrong. He didn’t bring no
furs. Just the money, but lots of it.
Wonder where he got it.”

Pello was a big man with little hair
on his skull and less patience in his
heart. “You didn’t come here to won-
der, I reckon. Get to the point, huh?”

“You ain’t very bright today, Bill,”
Mike said. “We need a. ..a scapegoat,
don’t we? Willie Feather’ll do jus’ fine,
Don’t you see. Guy Malone’s body
migèt be found, and Guy’s got a lotta
friends around here. You never know
what they’ll dig up.”

“Malone’s been dead for five weeks,”
Pello growled. “The wolves have likely
scattered his bones by now.”

“You never can tell, Bill. We fixed
him late in the afternoon, an’ there was
a heavy fall of snow at dusk, Malone’s

8 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

body might’ve covered an’ pre-
served. It was high up on Robson,
too. But now the snows are runnin’
away an’ the wolves have gone north.
The body might come to light an’ be
found,”

“So what?” The sergeant was frown-
ing. “So some one finds him. How the
hell can we be connected with it?”

“Malone’s friends ain’t ours, Bill.
An’ we was outta town, you and me, at
the time Malone should’ve reached here
but didn’t. There’s fellas in this town
who ain’t gonna forget that. If they find
out for sure that Malone’s been killed,
they’re gonna get nasty. You never
know what they might dig up.”

“I reckon you’re crazy, worryin’ over
nofhin’,” Pello said. “An’ I still don’t
see where Willie Feather comes into it.”

“PIL explain, kinda slow, so’s mebbe
you can savvy. As a trooper, you’re
supposed to do somethin’ about Ma-
lone’s disappearance. This’s your
chance. Where’d the breed get all that
money? Guy Malone was a gambler
an’ always carried a lotta money. Guy’s
five weeks overdue...an’ now this
trapper hits town loaded with dollars.
See what I mean?”

Sergeant Pello thought about it for
long moments. Then he said, “I see
what you mean. You wanta have this
thing cleaned up, finished with forever,
huh? Then folk’ll forget about it an’
well be safe. But...I don’t know.”

“Hell’s bells!” Mike spat across the
room. “Why not?”

“Might be dangerous. Willie Feather
might have some legitimate reason for
bein’ loaded with cash. We might stir
up a hornet’s nest for nothin’—”

“Are you crazy? What legitimate
reason could that breed have for bein’
rich? He’s been up on the Robson all
winter, ain’t he? He’s supposed to have
been trappin’. Where would he get
money, up in them fir forests? O’
course he stole the stuff, there ain’t no
doubt about it. Likely he killed some
lone traveller for his roll. What’s it

matter if we hang him for the wrong
crime?”

“All right, all right,” Pello rumbled.
He was heavy, deep-voiced and looked
Strong and tough, It was curious that
the weedy Mike Renny could always
bully him into half-hearted agreement.

pos BUCKLED a gunbelt round
his waist and strode from the office.
The town was crowded. An untidy line
of canoes along the riverbank told of
trappers arriving from fur-grounds to
the north and west. The warm whisper
of spring brought life to Leroy’s Cor-
ner, as it did everywhere.

Sergent Pello looked in at each of
the three saloons and found Willie Fea-
ther in the third. It was a wide room
with low beams, from which hung
smoking lamps, the approach of sunset
outside making such lightning neces-
sary to combat the smoke-hazed gloom.
There was a bar, behind which fat Roy
Tollice served fiery whisky, and tables
at which fur-capped, check-shirted men
played poker or caressed the tight-
frocked saloon girls on their laps.

Willie Feather was playing poker.
Pello strolled across the room, return-
ing the nods of some men and the cold
stares of others. He stood behind the
breed’s chair and watched. The breed
had matched a pile of chips in the
centre and wanted to see cards. The
cards he saw were too good. He tossed
in his hand and laughed. :

“T think mebbee the luck she is
leaye Willie Feather, eh?” he said in
his soft hiss, “I ween tomorrow, meb-
be.”

He left the game. Pello ordered a
drink at the bar, following the breed
there. The little trapper called for
whisky, paying for it from a roll the
size of his fist. He toted no gun. Half-
breeds were never too popular, and sel-
dom invited trouble by carrying guns.

But Sergeant Pello was a cautious
man, and he eased the .45 in its holster
before approaching Willie. He knew
that the breed would have a knife, that

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 9

he would use it like a flash of light
if he was cornered with a guilty con-
science.

“Had a good season, huh?” he said
quietly, easing alongside Willie Fea-
ther and calling for whisky. The trap-
per looked at him with frozen eyes
that were neither friendly nor hos-
tile.

“Ver good, Sergean’, ver’ good. All
the trapper catch plenty fur, you bet,
make plenty monee.’

Fat Roy Tollice slid whisky to the
sergeant with a smile. Tollice was a
good businessman in a tiny town where
competition was great, and smiled at
all his customers whether he liked
them or not. Bill Pello sipped his
drink and grinned heavily at Willie
Feather.

“You're a sneakin’ liar, Willie. You
made a lotta money, sure, but not outa
furs. You brought no furs into town.
All you brought was money, huh?”

While he spoke the big trooper was
tensed for action. But the action didn’t
come. A few men had gathered around
interestedly, and that was what Pello
wanted. The little breed looked at him
with frozen brown eyes, then calmly
lifted his drink to his lips.

Pello’s left hand moved quickly,
chopping Feather’s wrist aside to send
the glass and whisky spattering along
the bar. Poker games stopped and more
men gathered around.

“Where’d you get all that money?”
Pello cried loudly. “You brought no
furs down-river, yet you’re loaded with
dollars. How come? Answer me, you
shifty-eyed muskrat!”

The breed’s face was expressionless.
He seemed in no hurry to answer. One
of the men nearby said, “What’re you
gettin’ at, Bill? What’s it all about?”

Pello sneered at the man, whose name
was Jim August, and who was no friend
of the sergeant’s. Pello said, “Some
folks around here have got bad memo-
ry, huh? It ain’t but five weeks since
Guy Malone disappeared. We know
that he was headed across Mount Rob-

son from Mackenzie Creek. This breed
does his trappin’ on the Robson, don’t
he? An’ here he is, lousy with money,
spendin’ it like water. Guy Malone al-
ways carried a roll, didn’t he! Can you
fellas add it up, or do I have to say it
over again nice an’ slow?”

HERE WAS an interested murmur

among the men. The breed looked
at Pello, and now there was fear in his
eyes.

“No, no... Willie Feather not keel
Meester Malone. I get the so much
monee honest, like always. Willie
Feather he iss hones’ trapper, yes; He
sell the plenty fur, he make the plenty

——monee”—

Pello ected the breed with a
backhanded slap across the head. From
the floor. Feather looked up at him,
tears of rage in his eyes.

“I keep tellin’ you you never brought
no furs down-river, you sneakin’ breed.
Where’d you get the money?”

“I sell the plenty fur up-river. Agent
man he wait at camp an’ when Willie
Feather mush the fur down mountain,
thees man he buy ’em all queeck!”

He got to his feet, dusting himself
down, and glaring his hate at the police
trooper. There was a buzz of talk
among the crowd.

“That the best story you can dream
up? The agents all wait here for the
furs to come in. Why would one of ’em
go up-river to meet you when he’s only
gotta wait here?”

“Thees agent man he not from the
Corner—he from some other place—
far way—” The breed shrugged.

“What place?” Pello asked, his
fleshy lips curled in a sneer.

“I—I not know, Sergean’. Some place
—” He waved a hand vaguely north-
ward. “Willie Feather not remember.
Thees man he pay the monee, Willie
Feather hand over the plenty fur. ” He
shrugged again, in a way that said he
didn’t care a damn where the agent had
come from as long as he got the money.

Any doubts that had lurked in Bill

10 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

Pello’s mind were gone now. If that
was the best story the breed could give,
then it would be safe enough to blame
him for Guy Malone’s death. He said,
“Pm taking you along for questionin’
Feather. I figure it’s Malone’s money
you're throwin’ around, an’ that you
killed him for it. I’m gonna try an’
get it outa you—where you met him,
where you left the body. A citizen’s
disappeared an’ I aim to get at the
bottom of it. You comin’ quiet, or do
I have to drag you?”

The breed knew when the odds were
against him, looking at the ring of faces
and saying with the inevitable shrug,
“T got nothin’ to fear, Sagean’. Willie
Feather not keel nobody, I go with
you.”

The crowd fell back as the two men
marched out of the saloon. Pello had
the trapper by the arm and they went
toward the police office, leaving Roy
Tollice’s customers buzzing with excit-
ed talk. Mike Renny was still in the
office, and greeted Pello with a squint-
ing grin. , $

“Well!” he said, slumped crookedly
in the chair, “What’s this, Sergeant, a
lawbreaker? Whats Willie Feather
done?”

Mike was enjoying himself. Feather
began to say something, as if ready to
pour out his troubles, but he caught the
mockery in Renny’s eyes and knew that
he was a doomed man.

“No!” he hissed, breaking. away
from Pello and backing to a wall, his
dark little eyes alive with panic. “No—
please—you not keel Willie Feather!
I not do nothin’, nothin’ at all. I—”

“No, we won’t kill you,” Bill Pello
said. “We just wanta know where you
got that money, huh? Mebbe you bet-
ter start talkin.”

The breed licked his lips but said
nothing. Mike Renny said, “What the
hell, Bill. We know where he got the
money—”

“No, we don’t,” Pello grinned at
Mike. “Not really, we don’t. An’ I fig-
ure we might as well know, huh? There

might be more where it came from—
an’ money’s somethin’ I can always
use.”

He stepped close to Feather. The
breed made a swift movement with his
right hand and a steel blade flashed in
the light.

“Look out!” Mike yelled, startled
out of his chair.

But Pello was ready; the knife
swished through air as he shot his
left foot forward to kick the breed in
the stomach. The breed folded, cough-
ing on the floor, his knife clattering
across the room. Pello kicked him
again, and Feather was smashed flat.
He was spitting blood and groaning.

“Start talkin’,” Pello said. ‘““Where’d
you get that money?”

“I tell you!” Feather cried. “I tell
you how the agent man he wait at
camp, pay me plenty monee”—

Pello leaned down and grabbed him
by the throat, hauling him to his feet,
forcing him backward over a table.

“Talk, damn you!” His face was
close to Feather’s, sweating with ef-
fort and anger and a few other things
harder to name. “Come on... where’d
you get that money?” .

“The...the agent man...like I
say...” Feather’s words died to a gur-
gle and, in baffled fury, Pello took one
hand from his throat, jerked out his
forty-five, and clubbed the barrel
across the breed’s face. Willie Feather
went limp. Pello let him go and he
rolled off the table, crashing to the floor
and lying still.

“You're a fool, Bill,” Mike Renny
said. ‘Unconscious men don’t talk.
You’re too damned impatient, - that’s
the trouble. Against Willie you’ve gotta
use science. You’ve gotta make him suf-
fer without passin’ out, see. Leave it to
me. Give me a hand to rope him to a
chair, an’ when he comes to Pll show
you a few Injun tricks—”

ERE WAS a sudden scuffle and
the breed was running for the door.
He’d been foxing. Pello roared in rage

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 11

and fired a shot. The bullet smashed
at the slamming door and the two men
heard the thud of running feet outside.

“Damn him!” Pello cried, and
rushed ty a window. ;

The dusk was deep now, but the sky
showed light beyond the curve of the
trail that swung west from Lerov’s Cor-
ner. Against that skyline, Willie Fea-
ther’s running figure showed. Sergeant
Pello didn’t have much time, and the
range was long, but he was a good shot.

The bullet cut down the breed in his
stride. Fello put another shot into the
vague shape on the ground. The noise
of the shooting brought people running.
Men burst in at the police office door,
among them were friends of the ser-
geant.

Pello was unruffled. He drawled,
“Too bad...but the law allows me to
shoot an escapin’? murderer, an’ that’s
what Willie Feather was!”

Jim August was one of the men. He
said, “So you say, Pello. How do we
know it’s the truth?”

“I was kinda expectin’ that question.
You’re one guy in this town who don’t
ever cooperate with the law, August.”

“Not when you represent it,” Au-
gust said calmly.

“T guess you’ve got your reasons, an’
I sure hope to catch on to ’em some
day. Right now I’ve gotta be satisfied
with disprovin’ your damned insinua-
tions. The truth is, Feather killed Guy
Malone an’ stole his money. I beat the
truth outa him. He spilled it all—where
' the killin’ took place, where the body’s
hid—everythin’. Then he panicked an’
threw a knife, an’ made a break for it.
There’s the knife over there!” He
pointed to where it lay on the floor.

“You ain’t proved nothin’.”

“Tve got a witness to it all,” Pello
sneered. “Mike Renny, here. And to-
morrow I’m takin’ five or six volun-
teers on a hike up the Robson to where
the body is hid. We’ll bring back what’s
left of Malone...then mebbe you'll
be satisfied, August, huh?”

Next day the expedition to Mount
Robson started out. Jim August offered
to go, making some crack about
wanting to cooperate with the Jaw for
once, but Pello would have none of him.
Then Pello saw the unbelieving glint
in August’s eyes.

“All right,” he said at last. “Come
along, August. I’m gonna enjoy seein’
you eat humble pie. You think I lied
about Feather’s confession, huh? PH
show you.”

That the expedition hadn’t much
trouble in finding Guy Malone’s body
goes without saying. Pello himself had
helped carry it off a mountain trail
after Mike Renny had killed Malone,
and his memory was good. Pretending
to follow Willie Feather’s story, Pello
climaxed the search with just the right
mixture of relief and triumph. And
when the posse got back to Leroy’s
Corner, it seemed that the mystery of
Malone’s disappearance was solved fur-

ever.
~2-

HE STRANGER
was lean-hipped and
wide shouldered,
seeming to fill the
doorway as he
paused at the en-
trance to the Log
Cabin Saloon. It was
night and the saloon
was taking its usual
toll of citizens’ pock-
ets. But men paused in the drinking
and gambling to glance at the stranger
towering a good head over most of
them, as he sauntered to the bar.

The stranger didn’t seem to mind the
curious glances. He wore the clothes of
a man from the cattle country, black
shirt and narrow black trousers, high-
heeled cowboy boots which had been
expensive a long time ago but were
well worn now, and a black floppy hat
stained with sweat and trail dust.
About his lean waist a gunbelt hung
low to one side, holstering a Frontier

12 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

model Colt with a silver-worked butt.

All this was taken in by the citi-

zens who somehow quite naturally
made way for him at the bar. His
brown face broke into a smile and
there was smiling friendliness in his
voice as he spoke.

“Thanks, folks...a right hospitable
town, this Leroy’s Corner, huh? Never
been here before...me, who’s been
most everywhere. Name o’ Ez Baxter,
folks. All o’you who wanta be friends,
line up along the bar. The drinks are on
me.” á

There was no lack of friends for
Baxter or at any rate no lack of men
willing to drink his liquor. They
crowded along the bar. Tollice called to
half-breed employees to help serve the
drinks. The stranger watched with soft
amusement, like a man who admired to
see folks enjoy themselves.

Jim August, thick of body, with
yellow hair and friendly blue eyes,
was among the drinkers. He lifted his
glass and grinned.

“To Ed Baxter,” he said. “Welcome
to Leroy’s Corner.”

There was a general murmur of as-
sent and much solemn drinking.

A small group remained with Baxter.
August was one of them. He called for
more drinks, and grinned at the stran-
ger.

“On behalf o Leroy’s Corner PI
return the compliment. I’m Jim August,
I’ve got a tradin’ post down-river at
Kuska. So you’re from Arizona, huh,
Baxter? You’ve drifted quite a ways.”

“Don’t say that,” Baxter grinned.
“Fact is, I came to this town to
gamble.”

The tall stranger swallowed his whis-
ky and grinned at the doubt in the
eyes of August and the two or three
men nearby. Then he said, “It’s a game
o’ poker that was arranged a long time
ago. Between me an’ another guy who
likes to gamble. Baxter, he says, I’m
flat broke right now, but I’ve always
wanted to stack chips with you, an’

by golly I’m goin’ to. When, I says.
I’m goin’ north to Leroy’s Corner for
the winter, he says, an’ if you feel lucky
TIl meet you there next spring. It’s a
deal, I says, I’ve never seen Saskatche-
wan nohow. An’ here I am.

A man at August’s elbow mouthed
the obvious question.

“Who is he, this hombre you’re gonna
play cards with?”

“Who’s the doggoned most reckless
gambler in this town?” Baxter asked.
“Wouldn’t he be a fella named Guy
Malone? If h- ain’t the dangest card-
player here, he sure must be losin’ his
touch. Every other place where he ever
stayed...” Then Baxter saw the
clouded faces of the men about him,
and the grin left his lips. “Hey, what’s
the matter with you fellas? Somethin’
wrong?”

Jim August drained his glass. He
said, ‘“Everything’s wrong. You won’t
be playin’ poker with Malone, Baxter.
He’s played his last game. ..unless he
can rustle up a game over the Divide.”

HERE WAS silence then, until Ez
: Baxter thumped a big fist on the
ar.

“Dead?” His lips were a straight
line.

“Dead. Cashed in six weeks ago. A
breed trapper they called Willie Feath-
her killed him on Mount Robson. Killed
him for his money.”

“That so?” Baxter looked like a man
who would never smile again. He said,
“And this Willie Feather. Where do I
find him? Or has he been ’tended to?”

“He’s been ’tended to; Sergeant Pel-
lo shot him.” Jim August was looking
at the grim stranger and reading his
face. “Seems like Guy Malone must’ve
been more to you than jus’ a gamblin’
opponent, huh?”

“Yeh.” The tall man’s eyes were
gazing back into the past. “Him an’ me,
we kinda had big gamblin’ reputations,
from Texas to Wyoming and North to
Dakota. But we never got to play each
other, somehow.”

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 13

“Fact is, only time I ever got to meet
him was last year, in the middle ©
Blue Smoke River. It’s a long story, fel-
las. But I was in trouble, half-uncon-
cious and in danger 0’ drownin’. The
river was runnin’ high and fast. Then
a great grinnin’ hombre comes from no-
where an’ dives in an’ hauls me out.
On the bank we get talkin’ and soon we
find out that we’re a couple o’ card
flippers who’ve been jus’ yearnin’ to
meet each other.

“Anyway, Malone was broke at the
time, so we made this date at Leroy’s
Corner for the spring, like I told you.
He was one hell of a man, that Malone.
Flat broke but lookin’ forward to bein’
a millionaire tomorrow. How’d he make
out?”

“He sure did all right,” August said.
“Was only here a year, but made a
pile ọ dough outa lumber-jacking
across the border in Columbia. Made
a lotta friends, too, here in town. Did
some gamblin’, but not a lot. Said he
was buildin’ up a bank to try for big
jackpots later.”

“What was he doin’ on that Mount
somethin’ or other” Baxter asked.

“He’d been workin’ at a lumber
camp on the Kullen River an’ was
headin’ back to the Corner across
Mount Robson. He wrote that he was
comin’, and we was expectin’ him. He
never turned up....”

August told the whole story. Ez
Baxter soon sensed that the police
sergeant, the man who’d shot Willie
Feather, wasn’t liked by August. But
at the moment, that didn’t interest him.
He was full of sorrow for the man who
had saved his life, and disappointed
that he could do nothing to avenge him.

After more drinks, August said,
“Does this alter your plans any? Will
you mosey along outa this riverside
hole now, or stay awhile?”

Baxter thought ef the big southern
cowtowns where gambling stakes were
attractive, and there was only one
answer. He began to say, “Guess there’s
nothin’ for me here—”

But, looking at Jim August, his at-
tention was caught by a flash of color
beyond. He focused his gaze to the
green-frocked slenderness of a girl
who’d just entered the saloon. She
stood a pace inside the door, looking
about helplessly, and it was clear that
she felt very out-of-place yet was there
for a purpose. She was tall and full-
breasted, and graceful from the shine
of her bright brown hair to neat ankles.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Baxter
murmured. He went to the young wom-
an’s side, dusty hat in hand. He bowed.

“Could T mebbe help you, ma’m?”
he asked politely.

IS GLANCE flicked over the ex-

citing swell of her figure and the
cold, serene beauty of her face. For a
moment Baxter thought she was going
to ignore him. Then she turned her
fine head to look up at him with a
kind of réluctant approval.

“Thank you. I’m looking for some-
body...Mr. Renny. Mike Renny. Do
you know him?”

“Tm a stranger in this town, ma’m.
Ez Baxter, at your service. But if you'll
wait outside, I’ll find your Mike Renny
if he’s here an’ send him out to you—”

She left. A lot of gazes followed her
out. Baxter sensed that the girl was
somehow out of her element, not only
in the saloon, but in Leroy’s Corner.
He was keenly interested in her. She
was about the most beautiful. woman
he’d seen, and he’d seen a lot,

He went back to Jim August at the
bar. “Who is she, August?”

“Joan Davenport,’ August was
grinning at something in the tall man’s
eyes and voice. “Daughter of ol’ Ken
Davenport, who runs the town news-
paper. She’s only been here a week.
Lives in the East, jus’ visitin’ her Dad,
and not the most sociable gal in the
world. Likely she figures she’s a cut
above us backwoods folk.”

“She’s lookin’ for some one named
Mike Renny. D’you know him? Is he
in here?”

14 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

“Mike Renny?” August looked more
than astonished. He looked unbelieving.
“What...what the devil would she
want Renny for? That no-good loaf-
er—”

“Ts he in here? Baxter persisted. “I
said I’d find out.”

“Haven’t seen him around,” August
scanned the faces along the bar and at
the poker tables, and said, “No...
Renny ain’t here.”

The girl was waiting impatiently.
Baxter said, “I’m sorry, but Renny
isn’t there. Could I help you look for
him, Miss Davenport? I mean, he
could be in some other saloon and—”

“Qh, dear!” It was an exclamation
of impatience. “I want him right away.
He generally goes to the Log Cabin,
I’m told. Are you sure he isn’t in
there?”

“Tm sure. But look, there’s another
saloon across the way, let’s try there.”
“T really shouldn’t trouble you—”
-“No trouble at all,” Baxter said.
“After all, you’re new to these parts,
an’ the saloons aren’t the kind of places

you—”

“For a stranger, you seem to know
a lot about me,” she said, as they
crossed the street together. “You know
my name, you know I’m new to the
wilderness...”

“T never stay a stranger for very
long. I kinda like to get known quick-
ly an’ make friends an’ find out what’s
goin’ on. Look, if you don’t mind me
askin’, what on earth d’you want with
a no-good loafer like Renny?”

The question angered her. They were
on the wooden verandah of another sa-
loon now, and Joan Davenport stopped,
looking up at him in the gloom.

“You’re not a stranger!. Or you
wouldn’t know what kind of person
Renny is. I suppose you think you're
very funny...I shan’t trouble you
any more. Goodnight!”

She swung away and into the sa-
loon, the doors swinging in place to
swallow her. Baxter grinned, leaned
against a post and waited. He didn’t

want to annoy the girl, and at the same
time he didn’t want to leave.

E WENT into the saloon and stood

with the swingdoors nudging his
back. Joan Davenport was in the mid-
dle of the room, looking about with a
kind of frowning distate. It was a big-
ger saloon than the Log Cabin, and
low-roofed, the atmosphere gloomy
with cigarette smoke. Men lined the
bar and crowded the gaming tables.
Leering glances passed over the girl
in green.

She took short steps about, scanning
faces. Ez Baxter figured to let her suf-
fer awhile, then-to go to her rescue
again. But a bearded giant sitting at a
table with a glass of liquor in his right
hand, reached out and caught the girl’s
wrist in his left.

She didn’t panic or struggle. She just
froze. Her haughty eyes swept over the
big man and words came contemptous-
ly from her lips. The big man didn’t
like the words.

He wore trapper’s clothes, the fur
cap still snuggling his head. He growled,
“Ain’t good enough for you, huh? Come
here, filly, an’ we'll see if I can thaw
out that ice on yur face...”

He jerked the girl close so that she
fell across his lap, She struggled then.
She knocked the glass of whisky from
his hand and he laughed. “Wildcat,
huh; I like wildcats...” He tried to
kiss her.

She fought him, frantically, avoid-
ing his questing lips. Her kicking legs
squirmed her sideways off his lap and
he struggled to get a fresh grip of her.
His big hand ripped the dress and
bared her white shoulder. Then Baxter
took a hand, stepping close to cuff the
bearded face with stinging open hand.

“What the hell!” the big trapper
roared. The girl fell to the floor, a
tumbled riot of brown hair and ripped
clothing. Then the trapper got to his
feet, kicking his chair away to face
Baxter.

“What the hell!” he roared again.

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL i5

“Keep calm, fella,” Baxter said easi-
ly. “You made a mistake, that’s all.
She ain’t that kinda gal.”

“Who says so? PI kill you. I’m
King Farley...an nobody puts his
dirty paws on me an’ lives.”

Joan Davenport ran from the sa-
loon, holding her torn dress about her-
self. Baxter saw men gathering to form
a ring, excitement in their faces. He
felt a thrill of excitement himself, too,
but hid it behind an easy smile at Far-
ley.

The big trapper came at him. Bax-
ter hit him on the bearded face. It had
no effect. Farley got his arms around
Baxter and instinct warned Baxter not
to let him get his hands locked. Quick-
ly he thrust his head forward and up-
ward, cracking Farley under the chin.
The trapper’s head snapped back and
Baxter broke free of him.

The giant came ahead, shaking his
head and snarling. Baxter fended him
off with clever fists, then rammed
body blows at a waistline that was like
a tight-packed bag of wheat. But Far-
ley still advanced, like a great stubborn
bear. He closed in, got an arm about
Baxter’s neck, and hauled on the head-
lock to bend his face and body forward.
Then his right knee smashed upward
at Baxter’s face and dazed him. He saw
the big knee coming up again—and he
stamped savagely at Farley’s left foot.

His head came free of the headlock
as the jabbing knee hit him. Blood
warmed Baxter’s lips as he straight-
ened to meet the roaring rush of the
giant. He swung a tignt fist which
crashed on Farley’s jaw. It was a tre-
mendous blow. The crowd yelled as
Farley’s legs folded and he sprawled.

But only for a moment. King Far-
ley opened his eyes and rolled a little.
Baxter was about to dive on him again
when blood pooled from under the big
man and the crowd murmured with sur-
prise. Ez Baxter hesitated, staring at
the blood. There seemed to be a lot of
it.

~ Then he saw the pain in Farley’s

eyes. But the big trapper spat savagly
ad said, “We’ll finish this some other
time, stranger. Right now—right now
Pd be kinda obliged if somebody’d take
that knife outa my back—”

HE ROLLED, coming to rest face
downward on the floor. Baxter
bent over him. There was a slight lump
under the man’s buffalo skin belt, and
Ez Baxter jerked the heavy check shirt
away and saw a knife embedded in
flesh. The watchers crowded round. One
man growled, “I didn’t see you use no
knife, stranger—”

“Danged half-breed trick!” another
cried. “Stranger, we oughta—”

“Shut up!” Farley twisted his head
to say. “He didn’t use no knife—it’s
one I had hid under my shirt. I—I
kinda fell on it. Hell’s bells! Will some-
body take it out!”

“No,” Baxter said quickly. “There’s
a lotta blood, but the knife’s a kinda
plug an’ if we pull it out there'll be
more. Someone hustle an’ get a doctor
—this could be dangerous.”

A man ran from the saloon. King
Farley Jay on his stomach, his big
head resting on his arms. “Now I’m
sober! Damn you, stranger! A man
spends a winter in the woods, looks for-
ward to gettin’ drunk, then some inter-
fering stranger horns in an twenty
dollars worth o’ liquor is wasted. I
oughta—”

“Don’t talk, big fella. You’re only
makin’ this wound bleed more.” He
grinned, feeling a sudden warmth to-
ward the dangerous man he’d been
fighting a few moments earlier. He
said, “It was kinda careless to fight
with that thing under your shirt.”

A doctor came and took over. Later,
Farley was carried from the saloon.
Somebody gave Baxter a drink, He
went outside and looked about, but of
course Joan Davenport was gone. He
went back to the small hotel where he’d
booked in earlier, and went to bed.

Next day he went to see the growl-
ing King Farley, who was being kept

16 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

in bed at the doctor’s house. He was
surprised to hear that the damaging
knife was one that Farley had found,
high on the slopes of Mount Robson,
four weeks earlier.

= 3m

ING FARLEY
frowned at his visit-
or. “What was we fit-
in? about? I can’t
remember—I was
half drunk—”

“Sure. you was,”
p Ez Baxter said.
“T h r e e-quarters,
mebbe. You was an-

: noyin’ the wrong
kinda gal, an’ I chipped in. Forget it,
huh? I wanta hear more ’bout that
knife.”

“Like what? Farley’s small eyes
slinted from their surrounding whisk-
ers.

“Like where exactly did you find it.
A friend o’ mine named Guy Malone
was killed high on Mount Robson, an’
it seems you found the knife soon af-
terwards. Mebbe it don’t mean a thing
— or mebbe it does.”

“Mebbe it does,” Farley nodded. “So
Guy Malone’s dead, huh? I didn’t
know. Onl, hit town las’ night an’ all I
thought about was gettin’ drunk. Used
to play cards with Malone sometimes.
Most always he won. So—so they
found him out, huh?”

“Found him out?” Baxter frowned.
‘Who found what out?”

“Somebody—I dunno. They found
out his secret, I mean. Malone was flat
broke when he drifted into the Corner,
see, but soon he had money again.
Where d’you think he got it?”

“From workin’ in lumber camps.
“A guy named August told me.”

“Jim August don’t know it all,”
Farley said. “It’s only by a kinda ac-
cident that I know it myself. Malone
asked me not to tell nobody, an’ I

never did. Sure, Baxter, he got some
of his money from lumberjackin’ at
first—but he got most of it from gold.”

“Gold?” Baxter showed his sur-
prise. “You mean he.,.he made a
strike somewhere? I didn’t know Guy
was a prospector.”

“He wasn’t, Baxter. But one day,
early las’ autumn, I’m layin’ traps
along the lower north-west slopes of
Mount Robson an’ who do I run into
but Malone. He’s got a camp on slopin’
land near a waterfall an’ is diggin’ for
gold. An’ findin’ it.

“I ask him how come, an’ he tells
me the story. Seems he was headin’ for
a lumber camp in Columbia when he
comes across an old-timer named Kor-
tell. This Kortell is lyin’ in a gorge with
a broken leg an’ ain’t had nothin’ to eat
or drink for two days an’ nights.

“Malone does his best, fixin’ the
broken leg in rough splints an’ givin’
Kortell food an’ coffee. But the old-
timer never rallied. Three days later
he calls to Malone an’ tells him he’s
gonna kick off. He says he’s a pros-
pector an’ he’s found a freak cache
of gold, an’ on account of Malone’s
been so good to him he wants him to
have what gold is left in the diggings.
He direc’s Malone how to get there,
but Malone figures he’s mebbe off his
head an’ only dreamin’ about the gold.

“But after Kortell dies, Malone gets
tc thinkin’ that it won’t do no harm to
check up. It takes him a few days to
find the camp, which Kortell had left
to shoot game for food. An’ sure enough
there’s gold. Like Kortell claimed, it
was only one o’ them freak lodes they
sometimes find in mountain country,
an’ Kortell had dug most of it. Malone
got the rest. Not wantin’ to start a rush
or have his claim jumped while he was
away, he kept it a secret.”

“T don’t see how he could,” Baxter
said. “He’d bring the gold into town,
wouldn’t he?”

“Yeh...but not to this town. Not
to the Corner. He took it to a town in

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 1’

Columbia an’ turned it into cash. A` Malone’s death. See you later, big

little place called Pine Falls, a few
mile. inside the Columbia border. He’d
already made a trip when I met up
with him. He was still diggin’ the yel-
ler stuff an’ figured to make another
trip to Pine Falls. Then he was gonna
head back to the Corner an’ have a
high ol’ time at the poker tables.

“Anyways,” King Farley concluded,
“I sure kept his secret, like he knew I
would. We was friends, Malone an’
me. He knew I was kinda wild an’
rough but when I gave my word I kept
it. Now you tell me he was killed,
huh? Too bad. Looks like somebody
else got on to the secret an’ killed him
for his roll. I reckon he must’ve had a
few thousan’ dollars on him.”

“Let’s see that knife,” Baxter sug-
gested. “does it kinda tell us any-
thing?”

pry pointed to his bundled
clothes beside the bed and Baxter
found the knife. It was short but
broad-bladed, the handle bound with
deerskin. “It ain’t a skinnin’ knife, see.
No air-grooves “long the blade like a
skinnin’ knife. It’s strictly for fightin’
. ..or mebbe throwin’.”

Ez Baxter examined the knife, as if
he expected it to tell him something.
But it didn’t. Hed seen plenty of
knives like it. “Ain’t no way o’ tellin’
who owned this danged thing. But how
wasit when you found it? I mean...
did it look like it had been used in a
killing?”

“How d’you know when a knife’s
been used in a killing?” Farley growled.
“There wasn’t no blood on it, if
that’s what you mean. It was just lyin’
there on a mountain trail. No sheath

..that was the only queer thing, I
reckon. Them knives are most always
carried in tight sheaths an’ they don’t
slip out.”

“Mebbe it was used in a scuffle an’
some got left there. Reckon Pll go an’
ask Jim August some questions "bout

fella.”

But he soon found that August had
gone down-river to his trading post
and wouldn’t be back for ten days.
Baxter chafed at the delay. The feel-
ing was growing in him that all was not
what it seemed regarding the death of
Malone. He had a bad hunch about it.
He was playing with the idea of
heading for Kuska to talk with
August when he noticed a small
wooden building with Police spelled in
official red letters on the frame win-
dow.

Acting on impulse, he went in. A
big man of soft and bulky build, al-
most bald of head, sat with his feet
propped comfortably on a table. He
wore a sixgun slung low, and a mean
look which seemed to indicate no
scrupples about using it.

“Sergeant Pello? Howdy. Pm Ex
Baxter, from points south.”

“Howdy,” Pello said, eyeing him
curiously. “What can I do for you,
Baxter?”

“Tm kinda wonderin’ ’bout a friend
o mine.” Baxter eased himself on to
a chair and pushing his hat back on
his scalp. “Fella named Guy Malone.
I came here to meet him, but they tell
me he’s dead.

“Dead as a tin © beef,” the sergeant
said. “Too bad, huh?”

“Sure is, Sergeant. They tell me a
trapper killed him.” .

Yeh. Little breed they called Willie
Feather. He drifted in with a roll ’o
money an’ no furs. I got kinda curi-
ous. Beat it outa him that he’d killed
Malone an’ taken his money. Then he
tried to get away an’ I shot him. We
brought the body in later, a few ’o the
boys an’ me.”

“Queer.” Baxter murmured. Danged
queer!”

“What’s queer about it? Them
breeds would kill their own mothers
for a dollar bill.”

Baxter shrugged, feeling again the

18 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

instinctive hunch that things weren’t
what they seemed. He said “It’s kinda
queer, too, that he should confess, even
if you did beat him up. Seems to me a
beating for a killing is a good bargain.
Seems to me most breeds would’ve took
a beating an’ stayed silent. What ’bout
that?”

Pello swung his big feet from the
table and sat up straight, his gaze a
nasty mixture of anger and impatience.
“Look, are you makin’ out that, for
some ornery reason I’m lying?”

Ez Baxter didn’t like Pello. It hadn’t
taken him long to decide that a police-
man who openly admitted to “beating
it outa” his prisoners, couldn’ be much
good. “I ain’t sayin’ anythin’ like that,
Sergeant. I’m just kinda curious, that’s
all. Malone saved my life once, an’
there’s things about his death that puz-
zle me. For instance, how was he
killed? Was he shot?”

“Stabbed. The silent way.” He got
up, went to a shelf, took a knife from
it and tossed it in front of Baxter. “Wil-
lie Feather was kinda knife happy.
Likely that’s the knife he used on Ma-
lone. Feather threw it at me when he
tried to escape.”

AXTER looked at the knife. It

was similar to the one Farley had
shown him, but bound with greenhide.
Thoughts buzzed in Baxter’s head, cold
thoughts edged with anger that had to
be fought down before he dared speak
again.

Then he handed the knife to Pello.
“Wal. ..I reckon the case’s closed, like
you said. But I had to make sure. So
long.” He sauntered from the office,
sensing Pello’s scowling gaze on him.

For the rest of the day the prob-
lem nagged Baxter. Next morning it
was still with him. But later in the
day he forgot it for awhile as he paused
to watch a slim woman crossing
the street.

“Good afternoon, Miss Davenport,”
he said.

For a moment, he thought that she
Was going to ignore him. But she
seemed to think better of it, pausing
to look at him unsmilingly and say,
“Good afternoon, Mr..... Mr. Bax-
ter, isn’t it? I think I owe you some
thanks for last night. I hope you
weren’t hurt—”

“Please forget it. The big trapper
was drunk, or he wouldn’t have
annoyed you. Were friends, now.
He’s really a nice fella—”

“He’s a beast! An uncouth beast...
like most of the men in this terrible
hole—”

She broke off, turned and walked
on. Baxter went after her. He suited
his pace to hers and said, “You mustn’t
be too hard on Leroy’s Corner folk.
Some of ’em are a little rough, mebbe,
but if you understand ’em...” He
shrugged, and changed the subject.
“Did you find the man you were
lookin’ for las’ night? Mike Renny, I
think his name was.”

“T did, thank you...”

Her voice was as cold as ever but
there was secret depths in it. Baxter
looked at her, watching her face as she
stared straight ahead. With a direct-
ness that was typical of him, he said,
“You're in trouble, I think, Miss Dav-
enport. I’d sure admire to help you if
you'll let me.”

She looked at him with surprise.
“Really. ..I’m not in need of any’ help,
I assure you! Soon I’ll be headed back
East, away from this terrible place.
Goodbye, Mr. Baxter!” She swung
into a building and, rather pointedly,
slammed the door behind her.

HE SPENT the evening in the Log

Cabin, having nothing better to
do. The place was crowded, as usual.
Fat Roy Tollice greeted Baxter by
name, perhaps hoping for another orgy
of drink-buying. When Baxter bought
only a single drink, however, Tollice
said, “Mebbe you’re aimin’ to woo that
filly tonight, huh?”

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 19

With thoughts of Joan Davenport on
his mind, to Ez Baxter it seemed an
amazing question. But his thundering
brow relaxed as the barkeep went on
with, “Lady Luck, I mean.. .the filly
you claimed you’d go to hell for.”

With a slow shake of his head, Bax-
ter said, “No. I’ve got things on my
mind. I never gambie while I’ve got
problems worryin’ me.”

“T see.” Tollice looked at him keenly.
“You're still worried bout the killin’
of Guy Malone, mebbe. Are you inter-
ested?”

“Kinda,” the fat man said. “I’m one
o them neutral hombres who most
always keeps things to myself. I mean
....1 hear things, an’ if they ain’t none
o’ my business I forget ’em pronto. But
there are exceptions....if you know
what I mean.”

“I don’t, but I’m interested. Pour
yourself a drink at my expense, an’
keep talkin’.”

“All right.” Tollice didn’t speak
again until he’d tasted the whisky.
Then, “Kinda surprisin’, the way eve-
rybody took Sergeant Pello’s word
that Willie Feather had killed Malone.
Ain’t usual. ..most everybody’s got him
figured for a shady hombre... .”

The barkeep was leaning heavily
across the bar and talking in low tones,
so that even a group of drinkers ten
feet away were out of earshot. He went
on, “But ‘me, I been watching men
across bars for thirty years, and I reck-
on what I-don’t savvy ‘bout human
nature ain’t worth knowin’. So when I
tell you that I don’t like Bill Pello, you
can take it for what it’s worth. Add to
the fact that Bill an’ his sly friend Mike
Renny were outa town at the time o’ the
killin’. . „also, that Willie Feather had
a damned legitimate reason for bein’
loaded with cash.”

Baxter was watching the fat man
closely, trying to decide whether he was
genuine, or just working off a hate.
“Are you suggestin’ that Pello an’ Ren-
ny did the killing?”

~ A =

EN WERE calling
for drinks along the
bar, and Ez Baxter
had to wait for long
impatient minutes.
At last Roy Tollice
waddled back and
answered the ques-
tion.
“I ain’t suggestin’
A things, P^n just givin’
you some facts, an’ you can take ’em
or leave ’em. I was right close by, lis-
tenin’, when Pello came in here an’
questioned Willie Feather ’bout all the
money he was throwin’ around. An’
Feather told him he sold his furs outa
town, that an agent for somebody up
north had been waitin’ at the breed’s
river camp an’ had bought the furs
when he arrived with ’em.”

- “That sounds like a tall story.”

“Sure does. It did to Bill Pello. . .or
so he said. An’ at the time it seemed a
tall story to me. Now I ain’t so sure. In
the last week there’ve been three mere
trappers hit the town loaded with cash
but without any furs. They all claim
that their season’s catch was bought by
an agent who went to meet ’em. D’you
reckon they all had a hand in the killin’
of Malone?”

Baxter drained his glass, frowning.
“I don’t know what to think. I ain’t
real familiar with this trappin’ business,
but I sure never heard 0’ agents goin’
out to meet the trappers. I kinda
thought they waited in town an’ bid
for the catches when they come in.”

“Its a changin’ world,” Tollice
shrugged. “Mebbe there’s been a rise in
fur prices or somethin’. . .mebbe there’s
more competition than there’s ever
been before. All I’m interested in, Bax-
ter, is that Willie Feather’s reason for
havin’ money weren’t no stranger than
the reasons given by other trappers
since. There’s a kinda bad smell ’bout

Tae ce
——

Bei
~ d
=a
-~

=

=

20

that Malone killin’, an’ it seems to me
that folks are too willin’ to forget ’bout
it.” He wiped the bar with a cloth,
moving away. “Me...1’m still neutral.
Like I said, I’ve given you facts an’ you
can take ’em or leave ’em...”

Baxter was inclined to take ’em. Tol-
lice’s information was startling, and it
tallied with the business of the two
knives shown him by King Farley and
Sergeant Pello. He gave the whole mat-
ter plenty of thought, and slept on it.
Next morning he decided to go to Kus-
ka and see Jim August.

By mid-morning his horse was sad-
dled and his packs loaded. He rode out
of town and headed east along the
river. Inquiry had fixed Kuska as
being only three days’ ride away, a
tiny trading post which could not be
missed by anyone following the course
of the river.

He reached Kuska at noon on the
third day, skirting the river round a
massive outcrop of stone to see the
tiny group of buildings with canoes
banked nearby, and the brown figures
of Indians and half-breeds lounging in
the sun. It was a peaceful scene.

IM AUGUST was out on the veran-

dah of his store to greet the visitor.
“Glad to see you, Baxter. Heard there
was some one headed this way. . . these
Injuns o’ mine seem to know every
movement for miles along the river.”
He crinkled his broad face in a smile.
“What’s the matter? You get tired 0’
the Corner?”

Without waiting for an answer he
turned to the grinning redskin and
snapped an order in Iriquois. Baxter’s
packs were unloaded and carried into
the house, then his horse was led away.
Together in a room behind the well-
stocked store, the two white men ate.
And Baxter got down to business.

“Likely I won’t stay long. I just
wanta talk with you, ’bout Guy Ma-
lone’s death. I’ve learned a few things
that’re mighty interestin’, an’ I’ve got
some suspicions Td like to test on you.”

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

“Go ahead,’ August said, stifling
his surprise. He hadn’t doubted the
Willie Feather version of Malone’s
death, not since the finding of the body
at any rate.

But now, as he listened to Baxter’s
story of what Roy Tollice had told
him, his blue eyes went hard. “Damn
me for a fool... .I felt a kinda natural
suspicion of Pello when Feather was
shot, but I let myself be fooled into
belief when Pello guided us to the body.
He sure did put on a good act.

“But why? I can imagine that Pello
pullin’ any kinda dirty stunt, but he’d
have to have a reason.”

“Gold’s a danged good reason,” Bax-
ter went on to tell Farley’s story of the
dying Kortell and his gold-find. Later,
he said, “If some one found out about
that diggings they might kill Malone.
Mebbe they didn’t know that he’d jus’
about emptied the lode, an’ killed him
for it. Or mebbe they did know, an’
killed him for the roll o’ money he’d
turned the gold into.”

“Either way, it’s still a theory. An’
I guess you ain’t the kind to act until
you’re sure. How’re you gonna go about
gettin’ the proof you need?”

“I don’t know.” Baxter frowned.

He stayed at Kuska for just two
days, during which time he did a lot of
talking with his host. Some of it was
about the Davenports. Ez Baxter hadn’t
been able to get the girl out of his mind,»
and now he asked questions in an effort
to fathom her troubles. Jim August
seemed to know a good deal, and
spilled it willingly.

EL DAVENPORT, he said, he had
only been in the backwoods country
for a few years. He had come from Bos-
ton, where he’d been editor of an im-
portant newspaper.
“But I was fairly friendly with Kel,
and he talks a lot, ’specially if he’s
‘had a few drinks. Seems it’s the old
story o’ husband-and-wife splittin’ up.
She left him years ago, takin’ the
daughter with her. It broke Kel. He

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 7 21

started to slide, lost his job with the
paper. Later, he wandered north-west
an’ got jobs with small newspapers in
small towns.

“But it seems he never held a job for
long. Finally he drifted into Leroy’s
Corner. He was near broke. But he had
a freak run o’ luck at faro, an’ started a
newspaper with the winnings. That
was mebbe four years ago. The paper
struggles along, kinda, but I guess it
keeps him in liquor-money.”

“And the girl?”

“You’ve got me, there,” August said.
“Seems like she broke from her mother
long enough to visit her Dad. But some-
how I don’t think she was pleased with
him. Her mother had money of her own
an’ likely Joan was brought up refined
an’ all. Likely her ol’ Dad an’ the
rough-and-ready Corner folks was too
much for her.”

“Yeh, she told me that the place
smelled an’ she’d be glad to get away.
But she was troubled ’bout somethin’
deeper than that, an’ I sure wish I knew
what it was. An’ I wish I knew how
come she was visitin’ saloons, lookin’
for Mike Renny.”

“Tf she’s mixed up with that coyote,
she’s jus’ naturally in trouble.”

Ez Baxter enjoyed his stay with Au-
gust, but was anxious to get on with the
task he’d set himself. He mounted his
horse and headed back for the Corner,
fighting a problem.

I'd better work on the Renny angle
next, he thought. Pd sure like to meet
that hombre.

The riverbank trail was as lonely as
before. In the brooding silence of night
he camped, pushing on again next
morning before the sunlight had angled
into the canyon. The hours dragged by
as his mount pounded the difficult,
rock-strewn trail with patient hoofs,
and as he paused for food and drink at
noon, it seemed that there was only
himself and the horse in all the world.
Then he heard the shot.

It cracked up and down canyon walls
with a noise like echoing thunder. Just

the one shot. The drinking horse jerked
its head in fright and froze. But no
whine of bullet had menaced him, and
he heard the thump of hoofs, gallopping
away,

He swung to his saddle and urged
his mount forward. He went up a rise
of the river bank and swerved between
a scatter of boulders. Then he saw three
things, all in one startled glance.

First, there was the body of a man
sprawled across the trail, maybe twen-
ty yards ahead. Then there was the
riderless horse that had plunged off the
trail and was nosing the water of the
river. And thirdly there was a rider and
horse flying hell for leather beyond,
headed west along the trail.

The picture was clear to anyone with
an eye to see, and Baxter didn’t hesi-
tate. As he leaped his mount safely
across the sprawled body, he had a
glimpse of a thin old face drawn in
pain, a great mop of white hair strag-
gling from under a dusty hat, and a red
stain of blood spreading across a thin
chest. Next moment Baxter was riding
hard after the distant horseman and
drawing his silver-butted Colt for ac-
tion.

HE THREW two shots as the horse-
man swung from view over a rise,
Baxter urged his mount up the rise and
saw the fugitive making for a timber-
bordered curve of the trail. The guy
was looking back and there was'a gun
in his hand. He threw shots at Baxter,
but the range was too much for the
man, as it had been for Ez Baxter.

He turned back. In a few moments
he was bending over the moaning old-
timer and holding a water-bottle to thin
lips. The hombre was conscious, and he
sipped. Then he forced a pale grin at
Baxter.

“Ain’t no use, mister. Thanks for
your help... but I’m done for.”

“Don’t say that,” Baxter frowned.
“You'll be all right. I'll get you to
town, to a doctor—”. .

“Ain’t no use. I sell you...” A ter-

22 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

rible greyness came over the thin face
and Baxter knew that he spoke the
truth. Struggling for breath, the man
said, “Look out for... Renny, stranger.
Mike Renny—a bad hombre...an’
he’ll be after you. . .now.”

“After me? Why?”

“You seen him...kill me...didn’t
VOUs set a

And that was all. The smile froze
on the thin face, and it was dead. Bax-
ter frowned. He listened, but heard no
thump of returning hooves along the
trail. Yet he knew that this victim of
Renny’s had told the truth. Evidently
the man that Baxter was so eager to
meet, that Mike Renny, had just com-
mitted murder, and he sure wouldn’t
rest until he’d silenced the man who’d
blundered into the scene.

He led the riderless horse from the
river and put the dead man across the
saddle, roping him there. Then he
mounted his own horse and rode west,
leading the other. As he rounded curves
and topped rises in the trail he scanned
the distance clearly, always waiting for
an ambushing attack from Renny. It
was only a matter of time, he thought.

But the afternoon wore on without
any attack. Baxter thought: Of course.
He thinks he killed his victim outright.
And I didn’t get close enough to Renny
to recognise him, so he figures he’s
safe.

He began wondering who the dead
man was. He hadn’t remembered seeing
him around Leroy’s Corner. At sun-
down, when he struck camp and re-
lieved the stranger’s horse from. its
burden, he went through the dead
man’s pockets.

There were no personal papers noth-
ing to show identity. There was a few
dollars in silver, and an ancient tobacco
pouch with the initials K.G.D. in faded
letters at one corner. That was about
all. The man carried no gun, and his
clothes were the shabby garb of an in-
door worker, rather than the heavy and
colorful checks of the backwoodsman.

An indoor worker. Ez Baxter

frowned in thought. Initials K.G.D.—
Kel Davenport! The name popped into
Baxter’s mind at once. Why, he didn’t
know, unless it was because of the as-
sociation, in his mind, between Mike
Renny and Joan Davenport.

Was he really Kel Davenport? If so,
why had he been headed for Kuska?
And why had Mike Renny followed and
shot him down?”

These and other questions nagged at
Baxter’s mind as he built a small fire
for coffee. But his thoughts were shat-
tered by the sound of a snapping twig
close by, and as he jerked his head side-
ways a voice said, “Don’t move, fella,
or I'll blast you apart!” =

a FS a

ZRA BAXTER
stood up slowly, his
hands going up to
obey the motioning
gun of the man who
stepped into the fire-
light. Baxter was
careful not to make
any sudden move,
because he recog-
nised the newcomer
and knew that this was a bad spot to
be in.

“Hello, Sergeant Pello,” he drawled.
“Youre just in time for coffee. If
you'll let me lower these hands—”

“Like hell!” Pello’s fleshy face
twisted in a sneer. He stepped forward
and yanked Baxter’s Colt from its hol-
ster. Then he said, “Keep ’em up any-
way. You might have a knife hid some-
where, for all I know. I don’t trust
you, Baxter, if that’s your name.”

“I don’t trust you either,” Baxter
smiled. “That’s your real worry, Pello
..-1 don’t trust you.”

That one was a bit subtle for Pello.
He scowled. He jerked his big head at
the figure that lay on the ground at the
edge of the firelight. “Who is he?”

“You tell me. I’m a stranger round
here,”

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 23

The sergeant kept Baxter covered
while he went for a brief but unneces-
sary look at the body. He came back
and said, “It’s the newspaper fella,
Kel Davenport. Why’d you kill him,
Baxter?”

“He beat me at cribbage,” Baxter
grinned. “I sure hate to be beat at crib-
bage.”

The big policeman spat in the fire,
his forty-five menacing Baxter. “You
killed him all right. I spotted you
trailin’ the body. I followed you, kinda
curious, Now its plain what you was up
to. You figured to hide Davenport some
place after dark, huh?”

“Damn you, Pello,” Baxter said
tightly. “Quit foolin’, There’s only you
an’ me here, so why pretend? Likely
you know that Davenport was murder-
ed by your friend Mike Renny—it’s a
cinch that you know I didn’t kill him.
Now I know why Renny didn’t come
back to get me. You had a plumb better
idea, huh?”

There was a crafty smile in the ser-
geant’s eyes, and a purr in his voice as
he said, “What would I do after nabbin’
a killer? I’m bringin’ you back to the
Corner for trial, o’ course.”

“Yowre a liar. You wouldn’t dare
take me to town, an’ you know it.” He
spoke easily, facing Pello across the
fire, his hands at shoulder level and his
brain working fast.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you an’ that Mike Renny
are in trouble up to your crooked necks.
There’re things I can’t figure yet, but
there’re others I can. Pello, you
polecat, you shot an innocent half-breed
to cover up a killing, an’ now you sure
ain’t gonna let me get back to town to
talk ’bout the Davenport murder. No,
sir! You’re figurin’ to play the same
game once more—kill me, then go back
an’ say that I killed Davenport, tried
to escape from you, an’ you had to
shoot. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

“I ain’t stoppin’ you.” Pello licked
fleshy lips. “Yowre a smart fella, Bax-
ter, but this’s where you bow out. Pity

you had to horn in on somethin’ that
was none 0’ your business, huh? I’m—”

poea’ movement was blindingly

fast, his long legs kicking viciously
at the fire. Burning brands and sparks
showered at the sergeant, and Baxter
dived in their wake. Pello crashed a
shot to accompany his yell of anger,
but he was already staggering under
Baxter’s weight and the bullet spanged
among trees. Then the two Men were
locked in combat, and rolling.

Pello still had his own .45 in his
right hand and was trying to get it
against Baxter’s head. Baxter chopped -
at his wrist. Then he got both hands
to the policeman’s throat, but Pello’s
gun hand came up again and the barrel
cracked Baxter’s temple.

There was one sickening moment
when he thought he would pass out,
and knowing that death would be the
penalty he fought to keep his senses.
Somehow he got an arm up to shield
his head from another -clubbing blow,
then he squirmed across Pello’s body,
got his bared teeth to the gunwrist, and
bit hard.

There was a cursing roar from Pello
and he dropped the .45. The two men
rolled in the dust, fighting and snarling
with angry effort. Pello plunged a hand
inside his shirt and brought forth the
Colt he had taken from Baxter. Baxter
smashed a fist at his face and felt bone
crunch and blood spatter: Pello
screamed like a woman and fired a shot
which burned Baxter’s arm. Baxter got
both hands to the Colt and wrenched it
free.

They rolled. From the light of the
fire behind, Baxter saw the crazy rage
of Pello’s eyes amid the bloodied face.
With a huge effort the policeman tried
to hurl Baxter into the fire, doubling
his legs and heaving viciously.

Baxter spun away but saved himself
at the very edge of the fire. One hand
had the colt, the other pressed palm
downward for a moment on burnin
ashes. Then with maniacal speed ad

24 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

rage, the policeman scrambled to his
feet, ran forward, and aimed a mighty
kick at Baxter’s head. Baxter raised
the Colt and shot him a moment before
the kick grazed his forehead.

Pello did a kind of one-legged
dance of surprise, then collapsed as
Baxter rolled out from under. Even
as he fell, Baxter saw the bullethole
in his throat. Pello fell across the
fire and didn’t flinch. He was past
flinching.

. Ez Baxter staggered to the fire and

kicked the dead man away. With a
booted foot he killed the little flames
that had taken hold on Pello’s cloth-
ing. He thought: I’ve killed him. Like-
ly I’ve done Leroy’s corner a good turn
at that. But the law is dead against
the killin’ of police troopers, an’ mebbe
I'd better keep this night’s work to
myself,

When hed recovered sufficient
strength he dragged Pello’s body away
off the trail. Under the bright stars
he found a place of broken rocks and
pebbles, He made a mound of cover
the dead man. Then he stayed away
from the camp for a while, alive to
the possibility of Mike Renny coming
to see what was keeping Pellow so long.

That was the way Baxter had it
figured. And for that reason he kept
clear of the fire for the rest of the
night, resting in a dark place among
the undergrowth’ where, if he fell
asleep, stealthy death was less likely
to find him. He abandoned all thoughts
of a meal. Somehow he seemed to have
lost his appetite,

HE DID fall asleep at last. It was
nearly sun-up when he awoke. He
stretched his stiff body and went back
to the camp. And he swore softly.
There had been a visitor in the night.
Kel Davenport’s body had vanished.
Baxter congratulated himself on
staying away from the camp. Mike
Renny would have killed him other-
wise. Obviously he had tired of wait-

ing for Pello to return, had gone to in-
vestigate. The absence of both Pello
and Baxter sure must have puzzled
him. But in case anything had gone
wrong and Baxter was still alive, he
had taken Davenport’s body—the evi-
dence of his guilt—and disposed of it
somewhere.

Renny did not return, Ez Baxter
packed up, bathed his bullet-burned
arm and bound it, and pushed en.

Throughout the day he kept a keen

lookout for the enemy, half expect-
ing an ambush. At places he saw hoof-

marks on the trail, fresh ones. They

were headed toward town and were
dug deeply, which made them plain
to pick out from older tracks. Baxter
figured that they were made by Ren-
ny’s horse and it had been travelling
very fast. It seemed to indicate that
there would be no attempt at an am-
bush.

There wasn’t. Baxter made camp
again at sundown, and once more spent
the night well away from it. He pushed
on in the morning and loped his dusty
mount into Leroy’s corner at noon,

Tired and sweating, he turned in
his horse at the town corral, went to
his hotel for a bath and change, then
considered what to do next. He fig-
ured that maybe it was his painful
duty to visit the Davenport girl Dano
he did anything else.

It was a task he was going to ia
but it had to be done. He went past
the empty Police office and along to
the Bulletin premises. The place was
closed, of course, but maybe Joan
would be out back somewhere. He
rapped at the door.

There was no anwer. He knocked
several times, with no result. He won-
dered if the girl was out. He wondered
where she’d been going. He turned to
pass on, and for no reason at all he
flung a last look back at the frame
window. He was quick-eyed enough to
catch the rustle of the curtain beyond

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 25

“and knew that somebody inside had
been watching him.

He walked away. He turned left
down a passage between buildings, then
left again and back to the rear of the
Bulletin office. There was a tiny yard
full of rubbish. He climbed the rickety
fence.

A moment later he was at the back
door of the building. Under his
hunched weight it crashed open. There
was a kitchen, and a doorway to an-
other room, Joan Davenport stood
framed in the doorway, rounded
breasts heaving under the light dress
she wore, a heavy sixgun in one hand.
She said, “How dare you force your
way in here!”

Baxter took in her white-faced ten-
sion and remembered his sad mission.
“Tm right sorry, ma’m. I knocked at
the front door, but you didn’t answer.
I thought mebbe somethin’ was wrong.”

She kept him covered, the gun un-
wavering. “I don’t trust anybody in
this nest of crooks and hooligans, Get
out! Don’t imagine that because I’m
alone at the moment I can’t defend
myself.”

“That’s what I’ve come about,” Bax-
ter said. “Your being alone, I mean.
I...I don’t know how to tell you...»
your father—”

“My father has gone to Kuska to
see his only friend, but he’ll be back
any time now—”

“Tm sorry,” Baxter said. “He won’t
be back. Not ever. I’m sad to have to
tell you...that your father is dead,
Miss Davenport.”

There, it was out. He knew that he’d
been clumsy and brutal. But the break-
up he’d feared didn’t occur. Joan
Davenport went a little limp, that was
all, the gun lowering slightly.

“Dead?” Then after a long-range
searching of his face she said,
“How...?”

“Murdered. I stumbled on to the kil-
lin’. I chased the killer an’ he got away.
But TIl get him. It’s a promise.”

“Murdered!” the girl breathed, her
hand with the gun fell limply to her
side, but she didn’t cry. “So they got
him. That’s what he was afraid of.
That’s why he was going to see his
friend, Jim August.”

“You mean...you know who killed
your father?”

“Of course. Pello and Renny. My
father knew too much, you see. I...
don’t know why I’m talking to you
like this, Mr. Baxter. For all I know
you may be an enemy also.”

AXTER made allowances for the

girl who’d just lost her father, but
after the allowances were made he
still felt a little angry. “Look... Miss
Davenport. ..I’m gettin’ kinda tired of
bein’ told that this’s none o° my busi-
ness, Pello could’ve killed me about
as easily as I killed him, luck goin’
his way instead o’ mine. I figure I’m
entitled to a little co-operation from
you. And it ain’t only your Dad I’m
avengin’. A good friend o’ mine was
killed, which is how I came to mix
with this thing in the first place. Now
will you please quit weighing up what
good it’ll do you, an’ start thinkin’
about how much it’ll help me for a
change? I sure would appreciate it.”

She frowned at him, thinking over
what he’d said. Then, “Who was he...
your friend who was killed, I mean?”

“Fella named Guy Malone. Saved
my life once. Was murdered on
Mount Robson. I’m purty sure that
either Pello or Renny killed him. If
you'll just—”

“Then he’ll be the one who wrote
to my father. Your friend Malone, I
mean. That’s what it’s all about.”

“Malone wrote to your Dad?” Ez
Baxter said. “Why? Was he a friend of
your father’s?”

“T don’t think so. It was just that
Dad ran the newspaper here, and as
Malone felt that he might be in danger
he wrote his letter to the newspaper.”

“Guy Malone in danger?” Baxter

26 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

frowned. “I don’t understand. Suppose
you start in at the beginnin’ an’ tell
me everything, huh?”

“All right.” She sighed, went to a
chair and sat wearily. “It seems that
Mr. Malone came into possession of
a gold-mine, the other side of Mount
Robson. He wanted to keep it a secret.
He used to dig the gold, take it to
Pine Falls in Columbia and sell it to
the bank there. But two people stum-
bled across his secret. Malone told
Dad all this in his letter, you see.”

“But why did he write the letter?”

“PJI come to that in a moment, But
first, about the two men who found
out about the gold-mine. The first was
a trapper named...oh, I’ve forgotten.
I think it was King, or something.”
Baxter thought of King Farley, and
nodded. There was no point in telling
her that Farley was the man who’d an-
noyed her in the saloon, and he said,
“Who was the other?”

“Mike Renny. One day Renny was
in the bank at Pine Falls and saw Ma-
lone cashing his gold, Later, back at
his diggings, Malone suspected that
he’d been trailed from Pine Falls. He
found sign backtrail, he said, then saw
the glint of binoculars watching him
from a far ridge as he dug for his gold.
He wrote that he suspected Renny,
never having liked the man and not
trusting him. I’m not good at telling
this, Mr. Baxter. Have I made it
clear?” .

“Yowre doin’ fine,’ Baxter en-
couraged, “And I’m beginnin’ to un-
derstand why the letter was written.
Malone didn’t mind the trapper know-
in’ his secret, but he sure was wary 0’
Renny, huh?”

“That was it, exactly. So he wrote
the letter to Dad, and on his next trip
to Pine Falls he mailed it. A couple
of weeks ago, my father received it.”

“That so?” Baxter did mental gym-
nastics, figuring that the letter must
have taken five weeks or so to reach
the Corner. He remarked on it, and
the girl nodded.

4

“My father did the obvious thing,”
Joan went on. “He showed the letter
to Sergeant Pello, who represents the
Law here at Leroy’s Corner.” she
frowned bitterly. “We know now, of
course, that it was the worst thing he
could have done.

“Dad naturally expected Pello to
investigate. The next thing we knew,
there was a visit from Mike Renny.
I wasn’t here...I’d gone to the store
to buy groceries. When I returned, I
found Dad very sick and the office
just about wrecked. Renny had beaten
up my father and warned him of what
would happen unless he forgot all
about the Malone killing. He made
Dad hand over the letter, too. When I
got back here and saw what had hap-
pened I was furious. That was the night
I met you, Mr. Baxter. I wanted to
tell Renny what I thought of him, It
sounds silly and futile now, I suppose
... but I was just bubbling with anger.
I had to do something. I found
Renny eventually...but of course he
only laughed at me and insulted me.”

HE REST of Joan
Davenport’s story
ran along obvious
lines. Ez Baxter
could have finished
it for her, In a quan-
dary about the kil-
ling of Guy Malone
and the guilt of Pel-
lo and Renny, and

no longer sure about
wis he could trust in town, Kel Day-
enport had tried to reach Jim August.

That was as far as the girls story
could go.

Baxter figured the remainder. Pello
and Renny had followed the old news-
paper man and Renny had done the
killing. When Baxter had come on the
scene, Renny had kept out of range
while Pello moved in to add another

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 27

victim to the murder list. It was the
age-old story of one murder leading
to others, but this time the play had
gone wrong, and one of the killers was
now dead.

But the thing troubling him at
the moment was what to do about it.
Likely the folks at the Corner were
used to Pello’s absences from town,
and a few days would pass before they
realised that he was missing. By the
time they finished searching and had
accepted that the sergeant had van-
ished for certain and must be replaced,
and by the time the north-west police
authorities had sent a new officer to
take over, it was going to be a bit late
to charge Renny with murder.

At the moment, there was no law in
Leroy’s Corner. And even if there had
been, Renny would have been safe
enough. Malone’s letter about him had
been destroyed, and Kel Davenport’s
body hidden or otherwise disposed of.
There was no evidence that Mike Ren-
ny had killed. It was a problem that
had to be overcome, and Baxter saw
only one solution.

These thoughts played through his
brain as he said to Joan Davenport,
“What d’you figure to de now, ma’m?”

“I suppose I’ll go back to Boston.
There’s nothing else for me. And
yet...” She hesitated, shrugging help-
lessly.

“And yet “what?” Baxter asked.
“You'll be right happy to leave this
backwoods town, won’t you?”

“Ves...in a way. I would have, be-
fore this happened. But now, it some-
how goes against the grain to go away
and leave my father’s death unaccount-
ed for. Do you know what I mean, Mr.
Baxter?”

“Sure, I do.” He looked at her, his
lean face fixed in serious lines, “Your
father’s been murdered an’ one of the
killers is still walkin’ around free. But
that’s somethin’ I aim to do somethin’
about, Miss Joan.”

seemed to see Ez -Baxter at last, for
what he was, reckless and tough, may-
be, but straight as any man could be.
She said, “I’m sure you'll do your best,
Mr. Baxter.”

“Every time you call me that I
kinda look over my shoulder to see
who you’re talkin’ to,” he smiled. “My
friends call me Ez.”

“All right. .. Ez. But as I was going
to say...I don’t quite see how you
can do anything. Pello is dead, you
say, and at the moment there is no
law in town. And even if there were—”

“There’s other ways of punishing
killers,” he said harshly.

“Ves,” Joan said, her voice soft and
a little scared. “But those methods
only make you a killer yourself. In the
eyes of the law, I mean.” >

“Mebbe not,” Baxter smiled.
“There’s jus’ one thing though. If
you're figurin? to stay in town for
awhile, be mighty careful. Keep your
doors locked an’ barred. Don’t go out
after dark. You know, stayin’ for
awhile is likely the best thing you
could do. Because while Renny still
lives, he’s rememberin’ that you know
about Malone’s letter. If you left town,
likely he’d try to follow you like he
followed your father, figurin’ to silence
you in some lonely place. So please,
Joan, stay indoors...until I kinda re-
move the Renny menace. Will you pro-
mise?” :

“All right,” the girl said. “PI do
as you say.”

HE WENT to the Log Cabin, King
Farley, who had brushed the doc-
tor aside and left his sick-bed days ago,
was at the bar and telling a group of
drinkers about the time he’d fought
a bear in the Rockies. Then he saw
Baxter and finished with, “but the
toughest fight I ever had was with a
danged gambler called Baxter...
though what we was fightin’ about I
can’t remember. Howdy, Baxter!”

All her hostility had gone now. She Baxter smiled, called for drinks all

28 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

round, and said, “Gents, supposin’ you
ever have the choice œ fightin’ King
Farley or a bear, take the bear, It'll
be plumb easier.”

There was laughter from all but
Farley, who scowled with his own
brand of pleasure. Leaving the others
interested in the drinks, pulled the big
trapper aside and quietly told him of
the adventures down-river. Then he
said, “I want you to do something for
me, King.”

“It’s as good as done,” Farley
growled. “I’ll find that Renny rat an’
smash him with my bare hands. PH—”

“Hold on!” Baxter said, his eyes
slitted and hard, “Renny’s my meat.
I’m gona fix him...kill him in front
o’ witnesses in such a way that there'll
be no kickback against me. But until
I do, Pll be kinda worried “bout the
Davenport gal. There’re things I don’t
know yet, an’ one of *em is whether
Renny’s got other friends in the Cor-
ner. He might have. He might get ’em
to help him. So while I’m fixin’ to kill
him. I want somebody to guard that
gal at night, See what I mean?”

“Sure do. You’re scared the gal
might get what her ol’ man got, huh?”

“You're got it, big fella. And... wal,
I ain’t made many real friends here,
but...wal, Guy Malone sure trusted
you, an’ that’s good enough for me.
You wanta help me out?”

“Baxter,” the trapper said, “Ill
guard that gal so good her own moth-
er won’t get to see her without a wrote
permit from you.”

“Good enough,” Baxter said. “Watch
the Bulletin place. She’s there. She’ll
be safe enough in daylight, but guard
her at night. PII take over at mid-
night each night, until I manage to
kill Mike Renny.”

Baxter went next to the fat Roy
Tollice and quietly asked for some in-
formation. “I’m interested in Mike
Renny, Mainly, is he a gambler?”

“Who ain’t?” The barkeep looked
curiously at Baxter. “Renny plays a

game o’ cards now an’ then like every-
one. But he ain’t a heavy gambler. Too
mean, I reckon. He’d sooner make a
certainty of more money than risk the
money he’s got.”

“But when he does play, does he
play here?”

“Likely as not. Why, Baxter?”

“Pm kinda anxious to get in a game
with him,” Baxter said.

He was about to walk away, then
thought of something. He’d meant to
ask Farley, but had forgotten.

“Mebbe I oughta know what this
Mike Renny looks like. Only glimpse
I’ve had ọ him so far was from the
back, at high speed, with gunsmoke
kinda hazin’ the atmosphere.”

“That sounds mighty excitin’. Did
he know it was you chasin’ him?”

“I can’t be sure. Not that it’ll mat-
ter. When I sit into a game with him
in a crowded saloon, he sure won’t
bring up the subject o’ gunsmoke. Now
tell me. ..what does he look like?”

“What would a no-good hombre like
him look like! Kinda skinny build an’
slightly hunched in the shoulders, Foxy
eyes, most always lookin’ at you from
half-closed lids, and a long nose what’s
kinda broke off-centre. If you see a
guy an’ he looks like the most ornery
cuss you ever did see, then he’s Mike
Renny.”

“There’s times when I figure you
don’t like him much,” Baxter grinned.

A Reda NIGHT he hung about the

Log Cabin while King Farley took
up his sentry duty outside the Daven-
port place. Mike Renny came into the
saloon at a late hour, and as he breast-
ed the bar, answering Tollice’s descrip-
tion perfectly, Ez Baxter glanced at
the barkeep and saw the assenting grin
in the fat man’s eyes.

But Renny didn’t show any interest
in cards. He seemed worried, talking
briefly with Tollice, drinking three
quick whiskies, and going out again.

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL | 29

“What’s he het up about?” Baxter
asked Tollice.

“Seems he’s anxious to see Bill Pel-
lo, but the sergeant ain’t in town. Asked
me to watch out an’ let him know if he
gets in late tonight.”

“You can let me know, too,” Baxter
said. “I ain’t never believed in ghosts,
but I’ve got an open mind "bout ’em.”

He lingered long enough to see the
slow, incredulous delight in Tollice’s
eyes, then walked out. At midnight he
relieved King Farley, who reported
all quiet at the Davenport house. Noth-
ing happened during Baxter’s shift,
and he went back to his room at sun-
up.
The next day passed in pretty much
the same way. Baxter haunted the Log
Cabin and other saloons but waited in
vain for Renny to join a poker game.

For two more days the watching
of Renny brought nothing but the
knowledge that he had a friend. On
three separate occasions he spoke and
drank with a bowlegged man in trap-
per’s clothes, a man of squat. build
with heavy shoulders and neck, and a
thick chest. Baxter went to Roy Tol-
lice for the lowdown.

“Nate Laurue,” Tollice said. “Silent
sorta hombre, never mixes much. Nev-
er saw him friendly with Renny before,
either, That help you any?”

“Mebbe,” Baxter said, thinking that
any friend of Renny’s was bound to
mean trouble. And that night, at the
Log Cabin, Renny at last decided to
play a game of poker, and Baxter for-
got Laurue.

This was the thing he’d been waiting
for. With almost indecent haste he
strode to where Renny and two other
men sat at a table cutting cards. With
a friendly grin he said, “Excuse me,
gents, but if you’re lookin’ for a fourth
deal me in.”

“We wasn’t lookin’ for no fourth.”
Mike Renny looked at Baxter with un-
masked hate. “We was figurin’ a cosy
game, jus’ the three of us.”

“That’s so?” Baxter shrugged.

“Shucks...I’ve been tryin’ to get into
a game all evenin’, Mind if I sit an’
watch?”

Renny did mind, but could hardly
object. He stared at Baxter, and Ez
Baxter knew that even if the ruckus
downriver had been short and kind of
long-ranged. Renny had seen enough to
remember. Then another player said,
“Hell, four’s better ’an three. Let him
play, huh?”

“In an ’out,” Baxter said, smiling
and staring at Renny.

Renny scowled, flipped the cards
from hand to hand, then plunked them
on the table, Over-ruled by force of ©
numbers, he said, “All right. ..there
they are. Cut.”

Renny drew a king and won the deal.
He riffled the cards. “A busk to buy,
an’ a buck to play. Five-dollar raises,
Or is that too penny-ante for Baxter
the great gambler?”

“You know ’bout me, huh?”

“Some.” There was a sneer curling
Renny’s thin lips, “I’ve got a friend
who tells me you’re a friend o’ the
late Guy Malone.”

Bill Pello had reported his visit,
Baxter thought. He enjoyed Renny’s
worry, now that Pello was missing and
Baxter was safe and sound, a state of
affairs exactly the opposite to what
had been planned downriver. Baxter
said, “Bad medicine, that. What hap-
pened to Malone, I mean. That re-
minds me...” he grinned into Renny’s
slitted eyes. Have you seen Sergeant
Pello around lately?”

Renny didn’t answer. There was a
moment of enlightment, and a dark-
ening of the hate in his eyes. “You
ain’t answered my question. Before I
deal, is five-dollar raises good enough
for you?”

“Sure, sure,” Baxter said. “I’m only
playin’ for the enjoyment I’ll get outa
it,”

ENNY won the first hand after
one or two small bets. Jack Kurry
won the second. Then Baxter dealt

30 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

and Renny won forty dollars when his
full-house beat all opposition. The
fourth dealer was a man they called
Seth, and Renny again pulled in a
good jackpot.

That was a good start, for the pe-
culiar kind of game that Baxter intend-
ed to play. The early luck was Renny’s
and the other players would remember,
Then Renny lost the next two games,
neither of which involved much money.
That was no good at all, and when
Baxter dealt he put it right once more.
Renny hooked in a thirty-eight dollar
jackpot.

Ez Baxter was a natural gambler,
but that was only part of it. He also
had the long, clever fingers that made
manipulation of cards easy for him,
and the kind of quick mind which had
absorbed every trick known to the
gambling profession and which had
figured out others besides.

Once or twice before, in his long
career at the tables, Baxter had dealt
crooked cards. But never with a view
to winning money. To cheat for oth-
er people’s money was a thing that
revolted him. The only time he ever
cheated was when he wanted some one
else to win.

That was the game he played now.
Mike Renny was having a fair run of
luck, but the run was vastly improved
by the fact that he always won Bax-
ter’s deal. The reason for that was that
Baxter dealt him the best hands.

Mike Renny began to enjoy himself.

And why not? There was a stack of
dollars at his elbow and it grew big-
ger all the time. The crooked-nosed
hombre sneered a few remarks about
the great Baxter who was supposed to
be “one hell of a cardplayer,” and
Baxter smiled.

“A man can’t win when the luck’s
against him.” He looked at Renny and
said, a shade softer, “Your luck...
your lick Renny, is danged uncanny.”

“It sure is,’ Renny grinned—then
the grin faded and his shrewd little

eyes closed to slits, and he said, “What
d’you mean, Baxter?”

Baxter shrugged. “I mean what I
say. Your luck’s uncanny, You’re win-
nin’ two hands in every four.. .mebbe
this’s your night, huh?”

Without seeming to look, he saw
Kurry and Seth glance at Renny and
then at each other. Kurry won the
next hands, three in a row, but none
were worth much money. When at last
there was a spate of brisk betting and
the centre grew to sixty dollars. Mike
Renny’s ace-high in hearts was too
good and he added the sixty to his win-
nings.

“Any time you fellas wanta quit,” he
grinned, “I’ll—”

“I ain’t quitting,” Baxter said
quickly. “You’ve got a lotta my mon-
ey there an’ I aim to get some of it
back. Damn it...your luck can’t last
forever.”

“Tt’ll last longer ’an your money.”

“Wal...” Jack Kurry said, “It'll
mebbe last longer an’ mine. I'll be
quittin’ purty soon.”

“Me, too,” Seth said. “Man’s only
throwin’ his money away, against the
kinda luck Mike’s havin’.”

“Stick around, fellas,’ Baxter said,
and then there was a sudden hardness
to his voice as he said, “Mike’s luck’ll
change soon. Take my word for it.”

And now was the time, he thought.
It had to happen while Kurry and Seth
were still there. He wanted them as -
witnesses when he killed Mike Renny.

~ "J m

OR THREE days
Ez Baxter had wait-
ed for this moment.
For three days he’d
walked around pre-
pared for it. The
preparation was very
simple, consisting of
a spare ace of hearts
in his pocket, and
the loaded Colt

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 31

eased nicely in the holster at his thigh.

It was Mike Renny’s deal. He
flipped the cards casually, the grin
splitting his thin face. At the moment
he was on top of the world, even
though there was business which would
have to be got through later. Baxter
knew too much. He knew about the
killing of Kel Davenport, and likely
he knew abogt who'd really killed Ma-
lone. It meant that Baxter himself
would. have to die, and pronto. But
he’d worry about that later. Right now
he was sitting there raking in money,
and money was the thing he loved
above all else.

Jack Kurry threw his hand away in

disgust. Baxter bought two cards. Seth
and Renny bought one each. Johnson
bet five dollars. Seth raised it five.
Mike Renny was grinning at his hand
and quickly raised the centre another
five. Baxter had a hunch that this
might be a chance. He threw his hand
in.
He didn’t want to be involved in the
play when the great revelation came.
That way, nobody would dream of
suspecting him. He hoped this was
it. He watched Seth and Renny settle
down to steady betting, and both
seemed confident. Yes,- thought Bax-
ter, this is it. They’ve both got power-
ful hands and powerful hands always
feature aces.

Casually yet deceivingly, his long
fingers snaked the spare ace from his
pocket. Then he watched Seth and
Renny begin to slow up the betting,
each searching the other’s face and
studying cards before pushing more
dollars to the centre.

By the time the jackpot had grown
to near a hundred dollars, all Baxter’s
doubts were gone. Both men had really
good cards, and this was the moment
he’d been waiting for. He tensed him-
self.

“That’s as much as I’ve got,” Seth
said. He equalled Renny’s last bet.
“PIL look at you.”

“Aw, don’t quit because you’re outa

cash,” Renny grinned. “You got a
hoss, aint you? You got a good
saddle—”

“Ain’t bettin? my hoss an’ saddle,
Mike. They’re my livin’. I’ve done
paid to see your cards, so you’d bet-
ter show ’em.”

“All right, all right.” Mike fanned
his cards face upward on the table,
“There you are..,acehigh, all hearts.”

“Damn!” Seth slapped his cards
down, three aces and a pair of queens.
“See you again sometime, gents,” and
went to get up. At the same time Mike
Renny began to gather in the money,

BAER stopped them both, with a
voice like the crack of a wip.

“Wait! There’s somethin? wrong
here!”

Renny froze, the smile dying on his
greedy face. “What’s the matter with
you, Baxter?”

“Nothin’,” Baxter snapped. “But
there’s somethin’ the matter with that
last hand. Hell..no wonder your
damned luck’s been so good, Renny.

-You’ve been helpin’ it along.”

“Talk English! What do
mean?”

“T mean that you dealt Seth a come-
on hand an’ gave yourself a better
one.” Baxter was tense, waiting for
the first flicker of action. He said,
“You’ve been doin’ it all evening!
Dealin’ cold cards. You’re a doggoned
crooked polecat, Renny, an’ if you’ve
got-apy guts you’ll call me for sayin’
so!

“Pm callin’ you!”

It was almost a scream, born of a
rage beyond control. Renny shot te
his feet and kicked his chair away,
one hand punging to the fun at his
side. Men scattered from the line of
fire. Mike Renny’s gun came out and
its voice was a thunderclap.

Nobody saw Baxter’s gun come
out. One moment he seemed to be
facing Renny, the taunting words
spitting from his lips. The next mo-
ment he had swivelled sideways on

you

32 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

his chair and the silver-butted Colt
was somehow in his right hand, and
adding its thunder to Renny’s.

Each gun fired one shot. Renny’s
bullet, fired in blind anger, grooved
the table and spanged close to Baxter’s
ribs. Baxter’s slug found a mark in
Renny’s heart and the thin man was
dead before he hit the floor.

There was a moment of silence.
Baxter’s hand was shaking, now that
it was all over and the long tension
relaxed. He sheathed his gun.
“Gents...I guess you heard him call
me. And he shot first, huh?”

“He sure did,’ Jack Kurry said.
“You're in the clear, Baxter, But
there’s one thing I wanta know.
How’d you work it out that Renny
was cheating?”

“He was tryin’ to handle too many
aces, an’ they kinda got outa control.
Have a look at my discarded hand,
there on the table.”

Kurry turned the five cards face
upward. There were two tens, two
jacks and an ace—the ace of hearts,

“An ace too many,” Seth said. “Say,
he sure slipped up that time!”

“An I guess that kinda cancels the
night’s play, huh?” Baxter said. “If
you two fellas remember what you
started with, take your money an’ I'll
take mine. Well leave Renny’s for
his friends to take charge of, if he
had any friends.”

Later, Baxter went to the bar for
a badly needed drink, Roy Tollice
said, “Mister, that was the most in-
terestin? game o’ poker I ever did
see.”

‘Let it be a lesson to you. Never
take up gamblin’ unless you can shoot
quick an’ straight.”

He left the saloon. He walked
around under the stars, too stirred up
inside for sleeping. He’d squared
things for Guy Malone, and hoped
that Guy knew, wherever he was. He’d
squared for that half-breed . Willie
Feather, too, and for Kel Davenport.

And that brought his thoughts to Joan.
Her danger was over, now. It might
be an idea to go tell her, he thought.

He went to the Bulletin office. He
found the big King Farley lounging
in the shadows opposite. Farley said,
“You're early. It ain’t midnight yet.”

“You can go home,” Baxter said.
“There’s no danger for the gal now.
Renny an’ I kinda had a little argu-
ment over cards, an’ he’s dead, Thanks
for your help, Farley.”

Farley lumbered away and Baxter
went across to the Bulletin house. He
rapped loudly at the door, There was no
answer. No sound inside, no lights. He
grinned at his foolishness, Of course,
the girl wouldn’t answer a night-caller,
after hed warned her not ia,

He thought of the last time he'd
called on her, He went round to the
rear, He was approaching the tiny
yard when «a vague figure loomed
against the night sky, crouching on top
of the fence, A moment later the fig-
ure dropped heavily to the ground and
started to move along in the shadows
of the fence.

Baxter quickly blocked the move-
ment, stepping close to the fence and
saying, “Hey... .who’re you... what’re
you doing?”

"THERE WAS growl of surprise, then

sudden action. Something crashed
at Baxter’s face and he staggered back.
The dark figure tried to dart past, but
Baxter recovered in time to plant a
foot in the way.

The intruder hurtled in the dust,
gasping and swearing. Baxter went to
fall on him, but an orange flash split
the darkness and a shot thundered.
Baxter felt the breeze of the slug on
his face, flattened against the fence,
jerked his Colt from his thigh and
threw a shot, as the figure, scrambling
quickly to its feet, sprinted away in
the darkness. Baxter sent another shot
crashing away, but there was nothing
to shoot at. In the following silence he

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 33

listened. There was no sound. The
stranger had got clear away and it
would be useless, perhaps even very
dangerous, to try to follow in the trea-
cherous dark.

Baxter couldn’t get across the yard
quickly enough. When he reached the
flimsy back door it was swinging idly
on its hinges. It meant that the intru-
der had certainly been inside, and
Baxter’s heart thumped in alarm for
the girl.

He called her name loudly. His
voice seemed to echo in the empty
house. Fumbling with flaring matches,
he found an oil lamp and lit it. The
kitchen was empty, and he went from
room to room, still calling Joan’s
name.

But each room was like the last,
empty of life. He worked right through
to the big front room where the Cor-
ner Bulletin had been produced, but
there was no sign of Joan. Baxter
frowned. He was baffled. The girl had
promised not to leave the place at
night, Then a new, frightening thought
came to him, as again he remembered
the intruder who’d thrown hot lead in
his desperate getaway. Had he killed
her?

Baxter walked about the town, look-
ing for her. He looked in at cafes
where they served late meals, but
there was no sign of Joan. It didn’t
make sense that she should go to a sal-
oon, yet he looked in them anyway.
It began to look like she’d vanished
completely.

When he retired to his hotel room
at last, the puzzle was still unsolved.
And it was the first thing he thought
about next morning when he awoke. It
was after sun-up and he quickly
washed and dressed, hoping that the
day might bring a solution to his pro-
blem—.

Then he saw the square of paper on
the floor, near his door.

He picked it up. He saw the penned

message, and the dirty heelmark im-

printed across it, and even before he
read the words he knew that the mess-
age had been there on the floor last
night, but in the dim lamplight he
hadn’t noticed it. It had been slid un-
der the door during his absence, and
the heel-mark on it was his own.

“Dear Mr. Baxter,” he read, “I am
too scared to stay here alone any long-
er. I am planning to slip away today at
noon and try to make it to Mr, August’s
place at Kuska, He will know what to
do to get me to the railhead at Merl-
ton, from where I can head back to
Boston. Mr. August was my father’s
friend and I know I can trust him.
Thank you for the kindness you
showed, but I cannot stay at the Cor-
ner any longer. I am being watched
every night, and it is very frightening.
Last night I saw the face of a watcher
across the street, as he flared a match.
to light a cigarette. It was that terrible
man, that bearded ruffian who tried to
molest me in the saloon that night.
I nearly fainted with fear. PU not
stay in this heuse another night.”

It was signed “Joan Davenport.”

He, wondered how she’d intended to
reach Kuska. Not on foot, surely! It
had taken Baxter three days to make
the trip on a good horse.

There was one way to find out. He
hurried to the town corral. The note
had been written yesterday, , which
meant that Joan had been gone for
maybe eighteen hours. That was bad-

He hated to think of her riding the
lonely river ~trail, through country
which held its quota of wild animals
and wilder men. And it was a tricky
trail that had to be ridden at a walk -
for most of the way. Overtaking any-
one with so long a start would be hard
indeed.

The old corral keeper said yes, Miss
Davenport had left town yesterday, on
a horse she’d bought from him.

“But could she ride?”

“Sure, mister. Had one o them

34 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

dinky women’s ridin’ outfits like what’s
in them catalogues from the East. Sat
the saddle like it was Uncle’s arm-
chair.”

“Which way did she go?”

“Downstream, mister. Said some-
thin’ about headin’ for Kuska. But
don’t never tell her I told you, on ac-
count of she asked me not to say
nothin’ to no one.”

Baxter headed back to his hotel.
Passing the Log Cabin, King Farley
burst into view: from the swingdoors.
The big trapper began to say that now
was as good a time as any for a drink
together, but Baxter cut him short.

“Tve got a problem, big fella. D’you
know this country well?”

“Every damn inch of it from Mon-
tana to Buffalo Lakes. “What’s your
problem?”

Baxter quickly told him. He finished
up, “I’ve got a few reasons for wantin’
to catch up with her soon as possible,
but I’m danged if I know how it’s to
be done. You can’t run a hoss for
much o’ that trail, an’ she’s had nearly
a day’s start. But the river kinda
snakes about.a lot, an’ I was wondering
whether there was any other trail
cross-country, a way 0’ gettin’ to some
spot a long way down-river, but quick.
Then I could mebbe head her off, or
wait for her.”

Farley scratched his wild thatch of
hair. “Of all the damned fool things for
a woman to do. That river trail ain’t
no Boston park-drive, as she’ll danged
soon find out. As for headin’ her
off...” He shrugged, and swept an
arm toward the south-east and Kuska.
“That’s all mighty rough country, Bax-
ter. All canyons an’ boulder ridges.
Ain’t no open trails at all. Only way to
Kuska is the one she took.”

“I see.” Baxter frowned glumly.
“Then there’s no way of catchin’ up
with the gal?”

“I didn’t say that.” A slow smile was
spreading over the big man’s face, and
he clapped a heavy hand to Baxter’s
shoulder. “You go get your gear, I’ll

get mine. We'll meet here. You wanta
get to the gal, PI take you.” Without
another word the trapper lumbered
away, and after one doubtful glance af-
ter him, Baxter hurried to. his room.
As he packed his gear and paid his
bill at the hotel, he wondered how in
blazes the girl was going to be over-
taken if there were no short-cut trails.
Yet he put a lot of faith in King Far-
ley, and remembered the slow, confi-

dent smile.
fen S$ ay

Z BAXTER was
lugging his packroll
toward the town cor-
ral when King Far-
ley hailed him from
across the street.
The trappers
packed gear rested at
his feet, on the ver-
andah of the Log Ca-
UES bin saloon.

“Where in hell’re you goin’?” he
roared. “I said we’d meet here.”

Baxter crossed the street and said,
“I was goin’ to the corral for my hoss,
o’ course. Where’s yours?”

“Ain’t got a hoss,” Farley grinned.
“Hosses are for cowpokes, which I
ain’t. You leave yours snug in the cor-
ral an’ follow me.”

Baxter shrugged, and obeyed. Grin-
ning at his secret, the big man lum-
bered downtown and out of it, then
headed for the gleaming river that was
shot with silver in the morning sun.

“The river!” Baxter laughed. “Dang
me for a fool! I plumb never thought
of it.”

“You ain’t a northwoodsman, that’s
why. We folks know what rivers are
for. That deerskin canoe at the end o’
the line is mine.”

They walked past twenty-odd ca-
noes drawn up on the muddy bank.
The craft were made of spruce frame-
work and covered with drum-tight
hides. They looked flimsy. Out in mid-

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILE TRAIL 38

stream the river was running fast,
emptying the mountains of rain and
thawed ice. Baxter remembered some
of the rough spots downstream, and
was dubious.

“D’you figure we'll make it?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Farlely stared
at him in astonishment. “We’ll make
it faster than any clumsy-footed hoss
along the bank, you bet.”

“You should know,” Baxter said.
“But I seem to remember some danged
rocky rapids between here an’ Kuska.”

“Rapids ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout,
so long’s you know what you’re doin’,
Me, I ride ’em for sport. Let’s get our
stuff into the canoe.”

Farley’s craft was a long one, the
frame solidly woven and the deerskin
neatly sewn. There was a floor of lat-
ticed spruce saplings upon which they
put their gear, Farley stacking it with
expert knowledge as to where the
weight should be.

Together they launched the canoe.
Baxter took a seat forward, the giant
Farley clambering aboard behind him
and bringing the double-bladed paddle
into play. A few moments later the
craft was in midstream, and gathering
way with the current.

“Better ’an any hoss!” Farley yelled,
as the canoe swirled along.

Baxter was surprised at the speed.
The light craft’s high-arched bow
seemed to cut the wind and slide over
the top of the water, though back at
Baxter’s sides where the water swirled
past there was less than six inches of
freeboard.

Baxter looked at the few inches and
thought about the coming rapids. To
say the least, he thought, the rapids
were going to be mighty interesting.
But he had plenty of faith in Farley
and wasn’t worried. The big trapper
was in his element, singing lustily, if
not tunefully, as he dipped his paddle
to keep the canoe straight in the cur-
rent.

Baxter had glimpses of the riverbank
trail drifting past, and said, “We are

makin’ speed, all right. How soon d’you
figure we'll catch up with the gal?”

ARLEY took time out to think about

it. Then, “Reckon we’re goin’ mebbe
better ’an twice the speed of a walkin’
hoss. You do the figurin? Baxter...I
ain’t good at it.”

At that rate, Baxter thought, we
should reach her in nine or ten hours
travelling time, And seeing that she
had to stop and sleep last night, we've
got a good chance of reaching her be-
fore sundown, It was better than he
hoped for.

He kept thinking about the previous
night, too, and the affair of the intrud-
er. He wondered whether maybe the
hombre was just a petty thief snooping
around, and was inclined to write it
off at that.

And other thoughts in Baxter’s mind
were somewhat confused. For instance,
he wondered what he was going to say
to Joan when he caught up with her.
One thing would be “was sure wor-
ried ’bout you riding the trail alone
an’ figured to kinda escort you.” An-
other would be “Mike Renny is dead
an’ you’ve nothin’ to fear in Leroy’s
Corner any more.”

But there were still other things,
and how could he put them into words?
She was a quiet sort of person, refined
and sensitive, and she sure hated the
backwoods country and everybody in
it, almost. How could he say, “shucks,
Joan, I wish you weren’t goin’ back
East. Why don’t you marry me an’ help
me settle down some place, huh?”

He shook his head, unable to see
himself pleading to the calm, reserved
and lovely mask she seemed always to
wear.

The river changed character fre-
quently. Sometimes it raced narrow
and deep between rocky wallls, some-
times it slowed wide and shallow. At
the slow parts Farley added the force
of his paddle to make better time. At
noon they came to a wall-passage

36 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

where smooth boulders towered from
the river, Here the stream flowed fast,
and the trapper guided the canoe in
zigzag fashion between the boulders.
Baxter thrilled to the skillful handling,
knowing that the craft could crumple
itself to wreckage on any one of those
rocks.

On a grassy banked stretch once
more, the men stopped for a meal.
They ate tinned beef and biscuit, and
in twenty minutes were moving again.
It was a journey which Baxter would
have enjoyed, if anxiety for Joan
hadn’t filled his mind.

At places the river swirled over ledg-
es to drop ten or twenty feet, but Far-
ley always knew where they were and
wasn’t caught napping. He would bank
the canoe when these places were
reached, and the two men would carry
it to a point beyond the fall and launch
it again. And all the time Baxter
watched the riverbank trail keenly.

As the afternoon wore on, he felt
that Joan couldn’t possibly be much
farther along the trail. Then at last,
when the sun had lowered to mid-af-
ternoon, he saw a horse. He turned to
Farley, yelling.

“There...on the right bank. Pull
over.”

But Farley had already seen the
horse, and was nosing the canoe out of
the fast midstream current. The horse
was saddled and bridled but riderless.
A saddlepack was strapped to the sad-
dle, and the reins were trailing. The
horse was grazing at a grassy stretch
on the river bank below the trail.

Baxter looked this way and that, but
saw no sign of a rider. The canoe oozed
sloppily on to the mud at the river’s
edge and Baxter went over the side.
He helped Farley to haul the canoe
fast into the mud, then went to the
horse. He had no way of knowing
whether it was the one Joan had
bought at the Corner.

He cupped his hands and yelled, but
there was no answer. He climbed slop-
ing ground to the trail and yelled

again, up and down the narrow beaten
track. His voice echoed along the riv-
er canyons.

HE WENT back to Farley. “Where’s

the rider of this cayuse, anyway?
An’ I sure wish I knew whether it’s the
one Joan was ridin’.”

“There’s a way to find out.” Farley
opened the saddlepack. In a moment. he
nodded, rummaging with one big hand
and growling, “women’s foolery. This’s
her hoss, all right. Wonder if mebbe
she don’t ride so well an’ got throwed.”

Baxter was already thinking of that.
The idea of her lying hurt somewhere
along the trail shocked him. He won-
dered whether to search up-trail or
down. He began to play with a plan
in which he would walk the rest of the
way to Kuska while Farley went back
to town, each searching the trail. Then
Farley yelled.

The big trapper was down at the
river again, sixty yards further along.
He seemed to be interested in the mud-
dy bank, Baxter ran to him, the ob-
vious question on his lips. “What is it?”

“There’s one hell of a mess o’ mud
here.” Farley pointed to a deep, oozing
groove and the vague marks of foot-
prints which had melted out-of-shape
and become little waterholes. Farley
said. “Purty plain, huh? There’s been
another canoe pulled in here. See where ,
its bottom grooved the mud, sort of?
When we run our craft out it'll leave
the same kinda mark, An’ more than
one person got into it, I reckon, judgin’
by the mess o’ footprints around. It
might even be ...” He shrugged, and
looked at Baxter. “It might even he
that one somebody was kinda forced
in against their will, huh?” —

“It would explain everythin’,” Bax-
ter said tightly. “It would explain the
riderless hoss, an’ all. What...what
d’we do now, woodsman?”

“We get back on the river an’ pad-
dle like hell.”

The trapper hurried back to the ca-

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 37

noe, Baxter following. Baxter hated to
accept the theory that Farley had
voiced, but it seemed the only one that
made sense. Unless the girl had been
taken aboard by force, she would hard-
ly have abandoned her horse and sup-
plies to go river-riding.

The two men heaved the canoe
down the muddy bank an clambered
aboard as she floated, Farley got to
work with his paddle, and soon they
were speeding downstream. But Ez
Baxter’s anxiety was lined deeply in
his lean face. He questioned his com-
panion.

“What’re our chances? I mean...
the current’ll be carryin’ them an’ us
along at the same place, won’t it?”

“Mebbe, mebbe not. I’m kinda add-
in’ the arm-work to the drift, they
might be jus’ driftin’, After all, they
got no reason to figure they’re bein’
chased. Then again, there’re parts 0’
the river that run slow an’ wide, an’
parts where you’ve gotta carry your
canoe for a way. Could be we'll catch
up with ’em some place like that.”

It was something to hope for, as the
canoe swirled along the gurgling river,
` snaking between boulders and round
curves. Baxter scanned ahead, despair-
ing as the sun sank toward the edge of
the world at the approach to each new
bend in the stream he prayed that the
canoe ahead would come to view. Then
they came to a rocky, foaming cascade
that had to be by-passed—or portaged,
as Farley called it—and Baxter’s hope
soared again as they saw the mark’s
of where the first canoe had been por-
taged before them.

It was hard to tell how long ago
the marks had been made, but Baxter
thought they were fresher than the ones
back at the place where they’d found
the riderless horse. He said so, and Far-
ley nodded.

“You're plumb right, Baxter. We’re
gainin’, sure!”

But now the river got more rugged
with every stretch, with a lot of portag-

es to be made and sometimes mild rap-
ids in between. Baxter was impatient,
but Farley swore that the marks left
by the enemy at each grounding-place
were always fresher.

“An’ I reckon I know why. These
danged portages are helpin’ us make
big gains. Baxter, I figure that the
gal was took by jus’ one hombre, see.
An’ seein’ that she’s a prisoner, she
‘sure ain’t gonna help him carry the
canoe. Our danged canoe’s heavy
enough with both of us luggin’ it, but
the hombre up ahead has gotta carry
his on his own. I guess it’s slowin’ him
up some, huh?”

AT SUNDOWN they still hadn’t

sighted their-quarry, however. And
now they were really in the rapids,
This was the stretch of river Baxter
had noticed during his trip to Kuska,
and remembered. The stream was nar-
row between bouldered canyon walls
for awhile, then spread wider and shal-
low to roar strongly across a downgrade
that was just crowded with rocky ob-
stacles.

The downgrade was maybe a mile
long. It seemed to Baxter that they
could never make it. But again he had
under-estimated Farley’s skill. The
big trapper guided the frail, bobbing
canoe between boulders in magical
fashion, seeming to know instinctively
which fury of foam was a thin layer
over rock, and which had body enough
to take the canoe’s depth safely.

Sometimes the bow grazed solid
rock and sometimes there were scrap-
ing bumps along the bottom, But in
that maze of foam-lashed destruction
it seemed incredible that the craft
should live. Yet it did. Ih wonder, and
with great respect for the man behind
him, Baxter saw the end of the rapids
looming and a smoother rush of water
beyond—

Then he saw something that brought
a whoop of triumph to his lips.

On the smooth flow of river ahead

38 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

there was a canoe. It was maybe half
a mile away. Baxter pointed eagerly,
but the keen-eyed Farley had already
seen. He yelled merrily. Then some-
thing hard nudged Baxter in the back
and he turned. King Farley held a
Sharpes carbine and offered it to him.

“When we get close enough, mebbe
you can use it. I'll be kinda busy...
there’re more rapids up ahead, an’ we’ll
be in ’em purty soon.”

Baxter took the rifle, his short-lived
triumph giving way to anxiety once
more. If Joan Davenport was really
in that canoe up front, he hated to
think of her exposed to the dangers of
the rapids.

The canoe ahead was headed for a
bend in the river. Baxter hoped that
he and Farley hadn’t been seen. There
was a good chance that they hadn’t.
There would be no reason for the ene-
my to look behind, after all. Just as
the canoe vanished beyond the bend,
Baxter thought that he could make out
two persons in it. He couldn’t be sure.

The giant King Farley really worked
his paddle now, swirling the water past
with all the savage strength of his
shoulders and arms. The canoe cut
the stream, its bow swaying from side
to side in three-foot swings as Farley
ladled the water. Baxter watched the
river-bend looming closer. As they
rounded it he scanned ahead. Soon he
saw the enemy canoe. It was much
closer and now he saw for certain that
there were two occupants, the rear one
paddling. Then he saw something else.
The craft was nosing straight into a
mad swirl of rapids more dangerous
than the one Farley had just threaded.

Baxter went white as he saw the bub-
bling savagery of it. Behind, Farley
yelled, “I wouldn’t shoot this lot, not
even for sport. But where one man
can go, King Farley can go. Hang on,
Baxter!”

EY WERE frightening words. Ez
Baxter cursed the man who had

taken Joan into a danger which, nor-
mally, even King Farley would have
avoided. There could only be one rea-
son for it, he thought, The man ahead
was now aware of his followers.

Soon he saw that he was right. As
the canoe vanished into the boiling
white of the rapids, Baxter saw a white
face looking back at him. It was close
enough now to be within rifle range,
but of course Baxter didn’t attempt
to shoot. For one thing, he might hit
the girl. For another, if Joan had to
ride the rapids, let her at least ride
them with a man who would do his best
to get through. To kill her captor now
was to kill Joan herself.

The rapids were rushing at them
now, and Baxter saw the great masses
of foam and fury looming ahead of the
bow, as Farley drove straight for them.
Then the high roar of crashing water
filled his ears, and on all sides the
crazy river buffeted and sucked at the
canoe,

Baxter hung to the gunwales with
both hands, the carbine gripped be-
tween his knees. The canoe bucked
and rolled, sometimes twisting side-
on to swirl at a blecking boulder be-
fore Farley, with superb skill and
strength, righted it in the nick of time.

The other canoe couldn’t be seen,
of course. For the present, Baxter’s
world consisted of the canoe and a
circle of cruel stone-and-water all °
around. Above the roar of it he heard
the mighty voice of Farley cursing
the savagery.

Water came aboard over a gunwale,
soaking the gear. At ever bucking lurch
of the craft Baxter felt sure it must
overturn, But somehow the swearing
strength of Farley remained in con-
trol. The canoe plunged in a boil of
water and seemed about to shoot its
nose under the surface. Next moment
it bucked high and seemed to squeeze -
through close walls of rock—and then
unexpectedly the water was calm and
glassy once more, the current a lazily

THE GIRL ON BOOTHILL TRAIL 39

flowing one spread wide and shallow
between grassy banks.

“Were through!” Baxter yelled.
“But...but where’s that danged ca-
noe?”

There was no sign of the enemy
ahead. Baxter twisted to repeat the
question—and there was no sign of
Farley. Baxter swore. Farley must
have gone overboard, in the last few
feet of the rapids!

The paddle lay where it had fallen
on the spruce floor of the canoe, Bax-
ter scrambled back and tried to paddle
his way out of the current. He was
clumsy at it, but he got the canoe
turned toward the left bank. All the
time he scanned the river anxiously,
but saw nothing of Farley or the oth-
er canoe.

He had a terrible dread that the
other canoe had met disaster in the
rapids and that Joan must have
drowned, or been dashed to death.
Sweating with a kind of helpless rage
he nosed the canoe into the riverbank
and jumped out. He hauled it high
and dry—and at that moment a shot
cracked across the river and hot lead
spattered the mud at his feet.

Ez Baxter had time to grab the car-
bine and drop low behind the canoe be-
fore a second shot whipped close.
Peering carefully, he saw the fading
smoke of a rifle low on the far bank.
among undergrowth.

Understanding nothing except that
some one on the other bank was an
enemy, he sent a shot at the under-
growth. It brought a hot reply which
gouged deerskin from the canoe’s high
bow. Baxter fired a second shot right
at that bunch of scrub and hoped he
was bothering the unknown rifleman.
Then, maybe a full minute later, the
tifleman shot again.

Only—this time he didn’t shoot at
Baxter!

AT FIRST Baxter was nonplussed,
hearing the crack of the rifle with-

out the close whine of a slug. It bap-
pened once more. Then there was a
mighty roar of rage from mid-river a
little way upstream, and Baxter turned
his head to take in the amazing scene.

King Farley was out there, and he
had Joan Davenport! They had just
drifted out of the rapids and Farley
was supporting the girl with one giant
arm while he swam for the bank with
the other. And the unknown man
across the stream was shooting at Far-
ley and his burden!

Another shot spattered water close
to Farley’s head and the giant roared
again. Baxter roared, too. Then he
stood up in full view and put the car-
bine to his shoulder, deliberately draw-
ing the fire as he crashed shot after
shot at the unknown.

It worked. After Baxter’s second
shot a slug burned the sleeve of his
shirt. Another holed his hat, and a third
creased his thigh painfully. Yet he
stood his ground, throwing shot for
shot at the undergrowth across the
stream, while Farley with his uncon-
scious burden struggled nearer and
nearer to the bank.

Then the enemy stopped shooting.
Baxter watched but there was no move-
ment over there. Farley came stumbling
up the river bank with the Davenport
girl limp in his arms. Baxter ran to
help.

Blood from cuts on Farley’s face
mingled with the water that streamed
from his wild beard and hair. He laid
the unconscious girl on the grass. Her
soaked clothes had been torn by the
rapids, her blouse ripped to the waist.
Farley went to his gear for brandy.

Ez Baxter, was frightened by the
girl’s white stillness, He probed be-
neath her torn blouse, feeling for life.
Her breasts were warm under his hand,
the skin smooth and soft, and soon he
felt the beat of her heart. Farley
brought the brandy.

“She fell outa that hombre’s canoe.
I saw her, back there in the rapids,

40

clingin’ to a rock, I went over the side
an’ got to her jus’ as she fainted. We
kinda drifted outa the rapids, together.”

Baxter looked at Farley and his
heart was full of words he wanted to
say but couldn’t. Farley went on, “The
guy must’ve beached his canoe on the
other bank. He saw you come outa the
rapids. He shot at you, huh? Then he
saw me an’ the gal an’ shot at us. We
wasn’t a good target, I guess. Then you
drew his fire, Baxter. An’ judgin’ by
his silence now, you plumb put him
outa business,”

Farley went to his canoe, launched
it, and went to investigate the other
bank. With the brandy warming her,
Joan came to and sat up, Baxter sup-
porting her. Quickly she became aware
- of her torn clothes, gathering her blouse
together and moaning, “This terrible
place. Why did I ever leave Boston!”

Then memory returned. “I...I was
in the river. Who got me out?”

“A good friend,” Baxter said. “You’ll
meet him soon. But tell me...who
kidnapped you?”

“A horried, squat little man. Larue,
he said his name was, He told me eve-
rything. Renny paid him to kill me,
frightened that I might try to reach

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

broke into the house to kill me and
found that Pd gone. He guessed I
would be making for Kuska. So he
came after me, in a canoe.”

“Vet he didn’t kill you.”

“No.” She shuddered and flushed a
little. “When he saw me. ..he changed
his mind, Said he’d take me to a cabin
of his...a few miles this side of Kus-
ka, in the hills...”

“He’s dead now,” Baxter soothed.
“Renny’s dead, too. He was dead be-
fore Larue went to kill you, but Larue
didn’t know that. Wal...I guess Dll
take you along to August’s place, where
_you can sorta rest up an’ recover, huh?
You’ve been through a lot. After that
...I guess you'll be goin’ east, huh?”
He frowned in throught. “Boston, huh?
Wonder if they play poker there.”

Suddenly the girl screamed. She
clung to Ez Baxter in fright, nodding
her head at the wild-bearded Farley
who was canoeing back across the riv-
er,

“That man! That terrible man, he’s
after me again! Protect me, Ez, protect
Me?

Baxter pulled her close and kissed
her, and promised to protect her.

DESPERATION

WHEN KILLERS STALK

TOWN ;
by Don C. Barrie
o

by William F. Schwartz

They wanted peace
with the Indians.

ain “OR” Story
by HAROLD GLUCK

HE STORY of the American West is

made up of many dramatic episodes,
which have been told and retold both in
fact and fiction, Perhaps you have wondered
as I have, whether things might have been
different IF events turned out the other
way.
Coes Billy-the-Kid had killed Pat
Garrett instead of being on the losing end
of a sixgun? Would it have really made
much difference in the history of the West?
The answer to that is probably NO, for
Billy-the-Kid would have sooner or later
been killed by somebody else.

Suppose the Mexicans defeated General
Houston, and even won the war of 1846?
Would that have made a difference in the
history of the West? The chances are it
would have changed the destiny of our
country.

Suppose Kit Carson never had met Fre-
mont, would that have been very important?
Fremont would have used another mountain
man and trapper as his guide. Probably Kit
Carson would have continued being a good
man, but not famous; still the effect on the
West would have been nil.

41

This is an IF story; it is made up of fact
and fiction. Read it and enjoy it, but see if
you can put your finger on the incident
where the IF begins. For at that second,
when the IF happens, history is changed in
an entirely different direction. You may not
agree with the IF results. We readily admit
that the IF possibilities can be more than
one, and virtually unlimited. But don’t wor-
ty, for now our story begins ...

Y NAME is George Wilkins
M Kendall. Originally I was a
native of Vernon, New Hamp-
shire. At an early age I became a prin-
ter, and like others of my craft, found
employment in different cities. In the
year 1833, while in New York City,
the dreaded cholera broke out. In those
days, if you were still strong and
healthy, you packed up your possess-
ions and fled to another place; that
was the best way to remain alive.
There was a ship ready to sail to
New Orleans; I boarded her and thus
landed in that famous port of the south,

42 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

where I found employment in the com-
posing room of the True American,
They must have been very well satis-
fied with my work because two years
later I became the foreman,

However, during that time, I- toyed
with the idea of founding a daily paper,
modeled upon the policies which were
winning contemporary success and
fame for the Sun in New York and the
Ledger in Philadelphia. Finally I de-
cided to make the break; I took into
partnership, a trusted friend and fel-
low employee on the True American,
by name of Francis A. Lumsden. Thus
in January, 1837, we both launched the
New Orleans Picayune.

I was only twenty eight at this time,
and had limited resources; but the pa-
per soon became famous under my
guidance. Within the short space of
four years, I found myself known
throughout the country; and what was
equally important, there was money in
my purse. But I was restless. I wanted
to travel and I wanted adventure, Call
it the reporter blood in my veins.

Meanwhile there were strange ru-
mors about the activities of President
Mirabeau B. Lamar, of the Republic
of Texas. He was a native of Georgia
and a journalist, and had removed to
Texas in 1835, where he had taken an
active and prominent part in the Tex-
an Revolution. He was ambitious and
perhaps visionary. His purchasing
agent was in New Orleans to acquire
supplies and arms for a proposed San-
ta Fe Expedition. Permit me to give
you a background of the situation.

The average present-day American
finds it difficult to realize the extent
to which, in an earlier century, Spain
held dominion within the present
boarders of the United States. From
the Peace of Paris, of 1763, Spain
owned all our territory lying west of
the Mississippi. Eastward of the Miss-
issippi, she controlled all of the Gulf
Coast to and including the peninsula
of Forida. At the close of the American

Revolution, diplomats of the young
country were animated by a lively fear
lest the region between the Alleghenies
and the Mississippi be added to that of
Spain.

But the power of Spain declined, and
Mexico fought for its independence
from the mother country. The settlers
of Texas—chiefly of American origin
—won their independence from Mex-
ico, and established the Lone Star Re-
public. In doing so, the Texans had
as their boundary the Rio Grande to
its source, and thence by a due north
line to the Forty-second parallel.

This boundary, if established, would
have embraced within its limits a large
part of the Mexican province of New
Mexico, including the capital of the
province, Santa Fe. This was one of
the most ancient provinces of New
Spain; it was separated from the set-
tled portion of Texas by almost a
thousand miles of wilderness, over
which the fierce Kiowa, Comanche,
and other plains tribes roamed at will.

HERE WERE those who said that

this claim set up by the Texan
government was merely an assertion to
be traded upon for such advantage as
it-might be made to bring. There were
others who said that the Texan govern-
ment was. waiting for the right time to
enforce its claim, if necessary by the,
use of arms.

The New Mexicans were believed to
be sorely dissatisfied with their exist-
ing government, and ripe for revolu-
tion. If they could be induced to make
common cause with the Texans in their
conflict with the Mexican government,
they would be a good ally. There were
those in New Orleans who said the
proposed Sante Fe expedition was
merely for the purpose of trading
goods; others claimed it was to be
purely an armed expedition, to help
the inhabitants of New Mexico throw
off the yoke.

One thing was certain: They were

TEXANA 43

taking volunteers who would go on this
journey, I was debating what to do
when an invitation came to me, on be-
half of the Texan government, to join
the expedition as their guest. Here was
a chance to gather material for articles
and even a book, to travel, and to taste
adventure. So in all haste, I accepted
the invitation.

The expedition was to leave Austin,
the capital of Texas, about the last of
May or the first of June. The route
to be taken had not been determined
when Major Howard was in New Or-
leans, but it was thought that the
group would follow up the San Saba
road, from San Antonio to Santa Fe.
This was a route extending in nearly a
northwest, and—as was then thought—
a direct line. Fearing that there might
be a scarcity of water, the direction was
later changed.

I took the boat from New Orleans
to Galveston; there I found everyone
talking about the proposed Sante Fe
expedition. It was looked upon as noth-
ing more than a pleasant hunting ex-
cursion through a large section of coun-
try, much of which was unknown to
the white man, Such portions of the
route as had been previously explored
were known to abound with buffalo,
bear, elk, antelope, and every species
of game, besides fish and wild honey.

Here I met young Frank Combs, son
of General Leslie Combs, of Kentucky.
The young man had made up his mind
to join the expedition, in the hope of
improving his defective hearing.

“I understand you are leaving this
evening,” he told me, “for Houston on
your way to Austin. May I join you?”

My answer was in the affirmative
and the next morning we landed safely
in Houston. Every gunsmith in the
place was occupied night and day in
repairing guns and pistols. Every sad-
dler was at work manufacturing bul-
let-pouches and mending the saddles
and bridles of the volunteers. I had
brought with me my own rifle, pur-

chased from the well known Dickin-
son, of Louisville, Kentucky, In addi-
tion, I had my pistols, powder, lead,
bowie, other knives, blankets—in fact
everything except a horse.

“You wish to purchase a horse,
No?” was the way many would-be sel-
lers greeted me. I had no horse, hence
I needed one; that was the way they
figured. I examined several horses and
finally bought one with the name of
“Jim the Butcher.”

Frank Combs and myself, with one
or two others also on their way to Aus-
tin, left Houston late in the afternoon.
The weather was hot and sultry. There
was a shower and we stayed at a place
made out of logs; we passed a com-
fortable and dry night.

We continued on our way. Arriving
at Austin, I was introduced to Colonel
William G. Cooke and Doctor R. F.
Breham, two of the commisioners ap-
pointed by General Lamar to treat
with the inhabitants of New Mexico
They informed me that the expedition
would not leave under a week, at least
—probably not under ten or twelve
days. This delay I did not much re-
gret as it would give me an opportunity
of visiting places.

Frank Combs went with me to San
Antonio. I had a delightful time and
returned to Austin. The evening after
my return to Austin however, an ac-
cident occured which not only: came
near preventing me from leaving for
Santa Fe, but for any other places in
this, the lower world. I went walking—
and fell, Simple as that! My back was
injured, and my ankle shattered; I was
taken to the hotel and Dr. Breham
fixed me up.

HE DAY succeeding my unfortun-

ate accident, I was visited by crowds
of friends, among whom was the Presi-
dent, General Lamar. “The only topics
discussed had some relation to the
expedition. Preparations were going
on in every quarter. The merchants
were packing their goods, and mending

44 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

and strengthening the heavy wagons
upon which they were to be transport-
ed. Volunteers were cleaning and pre-
paring their arms, as we were to enter
an Indian and buffalo range almost
immediately.

Every one was anticipating an excit-
ing and glorious frolic, with the wild
gossiping tales of old hunters and cam-
paigners tending to increase the fever
of impatience to be upon the road, Not
a word was said about the hardships,
dangers, and difficulties that might
take place. As to our reception on
reaching Santa Fe, but little was said.
The universal impression in Texas was
that the inhabitants of Santa Fe were
anxious to throw off a yoke which was
galling to them, and rally under the
lone star banner.

While lying in bed, I received from
Mr. Roberts, then acting Secretary of
State—a letter written at the request
of General Lamar—inviting me to join
the expedition as a guest. I was to be
subject to no control, civil or military;
I was free to remain with the expedi-
tion so long as it suited my conveni-
ence.

The 18th of June arrived and with it
the time for the departure of the
group. A few of my friends endeavored

to dissuade me from going. “I will go —

it if I lose a leg,” is a common, yet
not very classical, remark among a cer-
tain class of Western men, when they
have fully made up their minds to do
a thing, I made that remark also.

The main body of the expedition
had been lying encamped for some
time on the Brushy, a small stream
about twenty miles from Austin. As
far as this point, General Lamar ac-
companied the last party. I was assist-
ed into a wagon on leaving. It was late
in the afternoon when we reached
camp, a beautiful and romantic situa-
tion on the Brushy, near several large
springs of cool and most delicious wa-
ter.

Many of the volunteers had been
stationed at this place three or four

weeks, and had become impatient of
delay. Now that it was certain that
they were soon to be on the move to
Santa Fe, all was joy, activity, and
life. Two days were now passed on
the brush in reloading the wagons, and
making the necessary arrangements for
the long journey ahead of us.

ON THAT fateful morning, the ex-

pedition finally took up the line of
march from the fertile valley and cool
springs of the Brushy. Two companies,
numbering some eighty men, were de-
tailed to go forward as an advanced
guard. Then came the wagons in single
file, and the beef cattle that were to
furnish us with meat. One company
was also detailed for fatigue duty—
driving the cattle and cutting away
the banks of creeks, or removing any
obstacles that might obstruct the pas-
sage of wagons. The rear-guard
brought up the long procession and

. consisted of three companies, there be-

ing six in all.

These companies were commanded
by Captains Caldwell, Sutton, Hough-
ton, hudson, Strain, and Lewis. The
latter commanded the artillery com-
pany, which had one brass six-pounder.
The number of volunteers doing duty
was two hundred and seventy; in ad-
dition, there were about fifty persons
attached to the expedition in some way,
being General McLeod and his staff,
the commissioners, merchants, tourists,
and servants.

The long train of wagons moving
heavily forward, with the different
companies of volunteers—all well
mounted and well armed, and riding
in double file—presented an animating
spectacle. It caused every heart to beat
high with the anticipation of exciting
events. And they were right, at that!

At night, we reached our camping
grounds on the San Gabriel. Some of
our party, who were first in, amused
themselves by fishing and shooting al-
ligators. On the arrival of the beef cat-
tle, one of them was selected, shot and

TEXANA 45

dressed. Then followed the cooking and
eating of both dinner and supper. We
had made no stop during the day,
which necessarily brought both meals
together and good appetites to do them
justice.

Our fare was simple enough: Roast-
ed or broiled beef, cooked on sticks or
ramrods before the fire, with salt, cof-
fee, and sugar. No breadstuffs were
provided, unless a small quantity of
rice can be dignified with that title.
Our meal over, knots of the volunteers
would congregate here and there,
around camp fires, telling stories of
the border forays, buffalo hunts, and
brushes with the Indians of the prair-
ies. Then we went to sleep.

As the days were now extremely
warm, early morning starts were recom-
mended and adopted. At daybreak we
were awakened by the cheerful notes
of the reveille. We made twelve miles
that day and encamped on Opossum
Creek, as there was no water within
several miles. In the night we were
visited by a tremendous storm of thun-
der, lightning, and wind.

Our next day’s travel carried us
across rolling prairies, not a tree being
in sight in any direction. Here and
there, in the distance, small gangs of
buffaloes could be seen scampering off.
Several of the huge animals were run
down and killed during the day. I
made a meal of buffalo meat. The
stories that night in camp were all in
relation to buffalo, the abundance of
“sign” in the shape of tracks and
places where the grass had been eaten
close, plainly denoting that we were
in the vicinity of a large herd.

The next day we continued on our
way and ran into a large buffalo herd.
Unable to mount a horse, I could not
join the exciting chase. We killed
twenty eight and took twelve young
calves. In the afternoon we reached
Little River, where we camped for the
night. We had a feast of choice buf-
falo meat, tongue, and also the mar-

row bones of that animal. At sundown,
a drove of mustangs—or wild horses
of the prairie—paid us a flying visit.

ON THE first of July we reached

Cow Creek, killing large numbers
of buffalo during the day. The 2nd,
we halted to repair some of the wagons
which had been upset and injured.
Many of the gullies and creeks we were
compelled to cross were impassable,
until much time had been spent in cut-
ting and digging away the steep and
lofty banks.

Our route from Cow Creek led us
over high and dry prairies and after
traveling some twenty miles—a long
distance for wagons—we were finally
obliged to encamp without water. The
day had been insupportably hot, with-
out a cloud or hardly a breath of air
stirring. All the water in our canteens
was consumed before noon; we suf-
fered extremely that night.

Very frequently on the great prair-
ies, a man wakes up in the morning and
finds that he has had a rattlesnake for
a sleeping partner. But there is one ex-
cellent trait in the character of these
reptiles: They never bite unless dis-
turbed, and will get out of the way as
soon as possible. In addition to the
rattlesnake, the tarantula is frequent-
ly met with on the Texan prairies.
They are large, black, venomous-look-
ing insects.

The early part of the 6th of July
was spent in cutting a road through
the thick belt of wood which skirts
either side of the main branch of the
Bosque. The labor of crossing the riv-
er was incredible. In descending the
abrupt banks which led to the chan-
nels, it was necessary not only to lock
the wheels but to hold back the wagons
with ropes to prevent them from pitch-
ing down. The ascent was nearly per-
pendicular and some forty feet high,
with not better footing than deep sand.
Some twenty yoke of oxen would be
hitched to a wagon; then ropes would
be attached, wherever there was a

46 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

place to make them fast, manned by
about fifty or sixty of the fatigue par-
ty.

Finally, all the drivers would be
called in requation and when all was
ready for a start such a jumping, whip-
ping,, cracking, yelling, pulling, and
cursing and swearing would arise as to
set all description in defiance. Yet,
difficult as it was, we made it. Later
we camped in a rich and beautiful val-
ley through which Cedral Creek mean-
dered. Some of the wagons needing re-
pair, it was resolved to remain here un-
til General McLeod should arrive, and
with him additional cattle for our sub-
sistence. On the afternoon of the 8th,
we were overjoyed to see him and his
party arrive. The object of Mr. How-
land, our guide, was to cross the Bra-
zos at the hearest practicable point.

After traveling some sixteen miles
on the 9th, we were fortunate in reach-
ing a small spring of water. Our pro-
gress had been considerably impeded
and made devious and tiresome by
deep gullies and runs. Our route on
the 11th of July, was along a chain of
rough hills which separate the valley
of the Brazos from the prairies. Dur-
ing the day, several wagons were in
some way broken and injured. We
made camp when we reached a spot
with good pasturage for our jaded hors-
es and oxen. Repairs were made en
the wagons and: on the 14th we again
continued on our way.

A WORD about our spy company.
Their duties were to keep one day
in advance of the main body, for the
purpose of picking out the best road
for the wagons, finding water, and
keeping a lookout for Indians, It was
in charge of Captain Caldwell, an old
backwoodsman, who had been engaged
in many conflicts with Mexicans and
Indians. He was one of the signers of
the Declaration of Independence of
Texas. A report came in that a large
party of Cherokees and Caddoes had

planted themselves in a large bend of
the Brazos, above Camanche Peak,

At first, it was determined to go out
of our way and attack them. We
changed this plan, and at night strict
orders were given to the guard to be
on the alert to prevent a surprise, or
our horses and oxen from being stam-
peded and driven off. The next day
our journey was through an area
known as Cross Timbers. Bear and
deer are found in the vicinity, and small
gangs of buffalo take shelter here when
scattered and driven from the prairies
by Indians. In many of the trees,
swarms of wild bees are found, thus
affording us the luxury of honey. For
two or three days we journeyed through
the middle of the belt trying to find a
way out. On one or two occasions, dis-
tant fires were seen upon the hills at
night; but we were unable to get a
sight of the Indians who were er-
camped by them.

Finally, on the night of the 23rd, we
reached Noland’s River. As many of
our oxen were much travel-worn, and
some of our horses needed shoeing, we
encamped upon this stream until the
26th. The officers of the expedition
held a consultation to devise means for
more rapid progress.

The first thing we did was to throw
away a large portion of the dried beef
we had brought from Austin, much of
which was found to be spoiled. Next,
we decided to leave behind our great-
est comfort—our tents. But one we
took with us, the hospital tent. Then
we continued on our way. For the
first time, our latitude and longitude
were taken by a gentleman who had
been an officer in the English navy
and understood the use of the quadrant.
In the evening, the spies returned and
told us they had found a route through `
the timber in a northwesterly direction.
The road we took, and it grew worse
and worse as we travelled on it. The
ground was covered with a heavy un-
dergrowth of briers and thorn-bushes.

TEXANA 47

It was also stumpy and stony, and
cut up every two or three hundred
yards by deep gullies. Night finally
overtook us. The drivers were worn
down, hungry and thirsty, and dispirit-
ed, Several wagons had been upset,
broken to pieces, and left on the road-
side. We rested and then came morning
with unpleasant news for us. Our mules
had broken their fastenings and start-
ed off, probably in search of water. We
went after them, and then were able
to continue on our way.

| Pedant we did get out of Cross

Timbers and crossed the great trail
made the year before by the Chihua-
hua traders. Then we found ourselves
upon a “burn”, or place where the
prairie grass had been lately con-
sumed by fire. During the day we also
noticed fresh Indian “sign”. Captain
Caldwell and his men met some Indi-
ans who told him they were members
of the Wacoes, They made no attempt
to attack us. Why? They had seen our
six-pounder, and were afraid of a can-
non.

But we did have a terrifying exper-
ience. We were making camp at the
edge of a stream; suddenly came the
report of a cannon and a dark smoke
was seen to arise.

“An Indian attack!” was the start-
ling cry on all sides, and at once we
commenced - huddling on our clothes
and bridling our horses. We set off for
what we supposed to be the scene of
the conflict; but as we traveled we
realized that the prairie was on fire in
all directions. The flames were going at
a fast rate, and our only hope of sur-
vival was to outrun those flames and
get to a higher level of ground.

The sky became lighted with a ra-
diance even more lustrous and dazzling
than that of the noonday sun. One of
our companions found a passageway
up a steep hill, and we were saved.
But daylight of the next morning dis-
closed a melancholy scene of desola-
tion and destruction. North, south, and

east, as far as the eye could reach, the
country was blackened by the fire.
Some of our wagons had been complete-
ly destroyed; at one time, the am-
munition wagon was on fire, but it was
saved by the heroic work of our men.
This I will say: A bullet has consider-
able virtue in relieving thirst, and a
piece of raw hide imparts much mois-
ture to the mouth, as I have proved by
sad experience.

Our food supply ran low. However,
a party went out hunting and returned
with deer and antelope; so we ate well.
The next few nights produced a mys-
tery: Our horses and mules began to
vanish, Somehow, the Indians were get-
ting through in spite of our vigilant
guards. Captain Strain went out with
a party of twenty five men to find
and bring in some of the Indians, and
find out what their intentions were
towards us. Lieutenant Hull was with
him; they made camp.

Lieutenant Hull went out with five
men to get water. They never returned;
their bodies were found, stripped,
scalped, and horribly mutilated. This
was the work of the Cayguas and we
sent a party out to find and attack
them, but no contact was made with
these redskins. Graves were dug and
we laid to rest those valiant comrades
of ours. Our journey continued,

We found no game to shoot, and our
food supply began to get lower and
lower. We measured our rations care-
fully, but the day came when we had
no more food. We were hungry. What
do hungry men eat? We eyed a horse
carefully; it was a broken down animal
and finally we shot it. The meat was as
tough as India-rubber, but we were
starved. Then came the glad news:
Some of our party contacted some
Mexican shepherds; they returned with
sheep. We were near San Miguel! We
feasted, and many made themselves
sick by overeating.

It was now determined by our prin-
cipal officers to send two men directly
into the town to confer with the au-

48 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

thorities. W. P. Lewis, captain of the
artillery company, and George Van
Ness, secretary of the commissioners
were detailed for this service. Both
could speak spanish. They returned
with disquieting infomation; the in-
habitants had been told by General
Armijo that it was our intention to
burn, slay, and destroy as we went.

N HOUR later, the notorious Di-

masio Salezar reached our camp.
With him were a hundred. roughly
dressed but well mounted soldiers,
armed with lances, swords, bows and
arrows, and miserable escopetas, or
old fashioned carbines. He immediate-
ly demanded an interview with our
leaders, and I was present when he
spoke. I should mention that by this
time my foot was practically healed.

“Amigos,” he began “I am certain
you are here only for friendly reasons.
As you know the law of Mexico, you
must have permits in order to do busi-
ness with our people. I shall assume
that you do not have these permits,
but do not worry; they will probably
be issued to you. Since you are here
only for friendly reasons, there can be
no valid reason for the carrying of fire-
arms,

If you feel you need protection upon
the soil of Mexico, I shall assign
guards to you, since you do have val-
uables. You will deliver to me all of
your guns, pistols, and supplies. These
will be kept in a warehouse, with the
names of the owners. When you re-
turn to Texas and cross the border,
then they will be returned to you.”

A conference was held by our offi-
cers and attended by the leading mer-
chants. The view of the merchants
was to agree with the demand of Sal-
ezar; our officers felt we should be
permitted to keep our pistols. Frank
Combs asked me to go aside so he
and some of the other young men
could speak to me.

“I think they are afraid of us. We
have superior arms and could hold

off an army. You aren’t bound by any
agreement; you speak to Salezar and
see what will happen,”

I returned to the conference and
faced Salezar. By this time a group
of young men, with arms ready were
in back of me.

“You surrender to us at once,” I
said, “or we shall wipe out every per-
son in town. Take one look at our guns,
You have three minutes in which to
decide; lay down your arms and we
shall treat you generously.”

Salezar didn’t have at that time the
slightest idea of who I was, but he
could sense I meant what I said,

“We will surrender,” he said, “but
in the new government, I want my
same position. I can be of much ser-
vice to you, help you with the people.
We shall go to Santa Fe.”

Before it dawned on the officers and
traders what had happened, Salezar’s
men began to lay down their arms.
W. P. Lewis came up to me and spoke.

“You certainly have put us in a
fine position! But I guess this is what
President Lamar wanted. We can’t go
back now; we must go on, I'll take
care of the traders.”

Our entry into Santa Fe was a joy-
ous one. Salezar spoke to the leading
inhabitants; they joined in the move-
ment. Our forces were augmented by
volunteers. Between us and Mexico City
stood General Armijo and his army.
We never knew exactly what deal
Salezar promised his friend. They, too,
joined us and we became known as the
“Revolucionistos.”

A month later, we were in complete
possession of Mexico City and the
country. President Lamar and his cabi-
net joined us.

He spoke to me alone. “Texas fights
for her independence from Mexico,
Now we are joined again; we shall
see the torch of liberty is never exting-
uished. It will be a difficult task to
blend all of us together. Had you not
spoken, the arms would have been sur-

TEXANA 49

rendered, and histroy might have been
different.”

A half century has elapsed, and J
am now retired from all political life.
True, the leaders of Texana visit me
for advice on important matters. We
are completely at peace with the Unit-
ed States of America, and there are no
fortifications on our boundary. In 1854
it was agreed to forbid the bringing
of any slaves into our territory; A fund
was set up to purchase and free all
slaves. I am glad to say that the

southern states of the United States of
America followed our example. We
have railroads, factories, many indus-
tries, and the best methods in agricul-
ture and cattle raising. My eyes are
getting dim, but they always see the
flag of Texana, and long may she
wave!

Where did the JF take
place? (The answer is on

page 98)

Question:

ALFALFA DAN

Alfalfa Dan was a chawing man,

A man who admired to chaw,

And he found the peace of a sweet release
With a big cud in his jaw.

He like the boon of Twe Steers saloon,
And there, at a table, he

Sat through the days in a happy haze,

A curious sight to see.

It is not denied that Dan took pride
In the accuracy of his aim,

For he could loose a squirt of juice
That would put a gun to shame.

He heard a buzz as sometimes one does,
And a fly forty feet away

Was sent to roam in its long home

In a shroud of ambeer spray!

Dan had no use for a cuspidor

In a near and covenient spot,

He liked it far, at the end of the bar,

He liked the long distance shot!

And men would see, and would agree
That one with an aim so true

Should have his name in the Hall of Fame,
As his just and honest due.

Barkeeper Kent thought Alfalfa lent

A touch that was not high-toned,

And often tried to get Dan outside,

But he failed, and he sighed and groaned.
“Just let me stay,” Alfalfa’d say,

“And one of these days you'll know

That a chawing man named Alfalfa Dan
Will make some fine blessings flow.”

The barkeep felt no honor dwelt

In force-induced exodus,

by Edward Garner

So he let Dan stay in the same old way,

While he learned new ways to cuss;

For Dan’s slow curves got on his nerves,

And his fast ones were like bullets that

Hit the cuspidor with the din of war

From the chair where Alfalfa spat.

At closing time one night the sight

Of two bandits caught Dan’s eye,

Their guns were p and their sights
were on

The barkeep, who wished to fly.

“We'll take the cash,” they said, and rash,

They began to rob the till,

The barkeep sighed and nearly died,

He looked as though deathly ill!

Alfalfa Dan took time to scan

The scene of his campaign,

And then he spat in a rat-a-tat

Barrage that fell like rain.

The bandits turned, for their eyes were
burned ;

With the “sun-cured” Alfalfa’d sent,

And they tied to flee, but they could not
see

Through the pain of their sharp torment.

Alfalfa sent Barkeeper Kent

To go get the sheriff then,

While he stood guard on the two- ill-starred

And crestfallen holdup-men. ..

Now two bandits sleep where night's shad-
ows creep

Past two graves that were filled at noon,

And Alfalfa Dan, who's a chawing man, |

Chaws on in Two Steers saloon,

*

SOUR, BITTER craving for
A violence welled coldly in John

Ladd and drove him. Remote
from every sight but the hated features
of Tracey Folsom, he closed Old Doc’s
door on his father’s body and started
down the walk, his bootsteps hollow
on the planking.

The moustache—the curling black
hair—the woman-seeking eyes! His
fingers twitched.

He stepped out away from the false-
front buildings and planted his feet
in the dust of Two Springs’ street,
dumbly beholding the buckboard that
swerved around him. Now he was
counting the horses tied before the sa-
loon, vacantly studying the empty
stage waiting in front of the Wells
Fargo office to load for Phoenix, be-
ginning to sweat under the mounting
July sun that fired the deputy’s badge
on his homespun shirt,

50

“It’s natural for a fellow to want to

gun down the man who killed his

father—especially when he’s follow-

ing his Paw’s footsteps in upholding

the honest enforcement of the law.

But a lawman’s got to be better
than natural...”

BETTER

THAN
NATURAL

by KENNETH GANZ

He was big, and solid for twenty-
one; when he began to march toward
the sheriff? s office, his stride puffed out
little clouds of dust that matched the
eyes under the campaign hat he wore.
He plodded down the middle of the
street, past the livery stable and the
blacksmith’s shop, until he came to
the adobe lock-up with barred win-
dows at the rear.

Sheriff West swiveled around from
his desk, “Son, I reckon I don’t have
to tell you Pm all cut to pieces about
your Paw.” His eyes shifted to Ladd’s
rigid jaw line. “I reckon everybody
in town feels about the same.”

Ladd was at the gun rack. He
reached down his gunbelt and buckled
it on. Then he lifted a Winchester out
of its slot.

The sheriff swung his creaking chair
further around. “I just rode in frem

Folsom ranch. Tracey ain’t there; he’s
lit out.”

Ladd found a box of rifle cartridges
and stuffed it into his pocket. “I got
a horse.” He looked into the distance,
past the sheriff.

The sherif nodded. ‘You’re a good
tracker and right handy with a gun.
None better’ than your Paw, and him
teaching you since you could walk. Be
written in the history books someday,
how he cleaned up Two Springs.”

“Lot of good it does him now.”

“Didn’t cotten to gunslinging jus-
tice.”

Ladd started for the door.

“Didn’t hold for a lawman shooting,
’cept he was pulled on. He locked them
up and put’em on trial. Killing wasn’t
his way.”

Ladd stopped and cursed Tracey
Folsom, “It’s my way now.”

The sheriff nodded again. “That’s
natural. But a good lawman’s got to

51-

He had to follow them into a longrider’s

do better’n natural, I was mighty proud
when your Paw handed over his job to
me, ’count of him getting down in the
back, and I know he was mighty proud
when I pinned a deputy’s badge on
you. ’Course Abner Ladd set a hard
example.”

“Pm making my own example out of
Tracey Folsom,” Ladd said flatly.

The sheriff got his hard bulk out of
the chair. “I got to say something you
don’t like to hear, but Tracey claimed
your Paw went for his gun first. It
wasn’t right for Tracey to say what he
did about you and the girl, ’specially
in a drinking place; but if he was
drawed on, the law don’t call it mur-
der to shoot first.”

“If Paw went for his gun, no Tracey
Folsom was going to get a shot in
first.”

The sheriff scratched the bristles on
his chin. “Maybe not, but I figure him
for mighty fast, What I don’t figure is

/

į

52 BETTER THAN NATURAL

for your Paw to draw first at all. Any-
body here knows better than that, and
it looks mighty bad for Tracey when
he’s catched. But it takes a jury trial
to decide what’s murder; it ain’t the
sheriff’s job, or his deputy’s. Your
job’s to bring Tracey in for trial.” He
put his big hand on Ladd’s shoulder.
“A peace officer can’t go lookin’ for a
killing.”

Ladd pulled away. He unpinned his
badge and threw it on the desk. “That
suit you better?” ;

“John!” The sheriff called after him
sharply and went to stand on the sill.
“You’re throwin’ a heap away.”

Ladd turned on him, the sun glint-
ing across the flat planes of his face.

“You hunt down Tracey and kill
him—that is murder. I'll have to come
after you.”

“Pll be looking for you, too.”

The sheriff’s voice tightened. “Take
it slow and easy with Tracey. I figure
he’s mighty handy with a sixgun.”

pean SWUNG away-and made up
the dusty street for Zed Hopkins’
livery stable. He could see his roan
gelding standing outside, saddled and
waiting.

Zed came out into the sun. “Thought
you might be wanting him. He spat
into the hot dust. “Old Doc’s took the
buckboard to his office.”

Ladd nodded. He loosened the roan’s
hitch and led it through the street to-
wards the apothecary. When he came
up to the buckboard tied to the rail in
front of Old Doc’s, he dropped the
_gelding’s reins into the dust and
stepped up on the plank walk.

Old Doc came outside, as if he had
heard a knock on his door. ‘“Every-
thing’s ready,” he said. In spite of the
-heat he had on his faded black frock
coat, and his white chin whiskers
bobbed above a collar and satin bow.
“TII go get Ed and his brother.”

Ladd said, “No. We’ll manage.”

They carried out the pine coffin be-

tween them and slid it on the buck-
board. Old Doc went back inside and
came out with a Bible. He climbed up
on the driver’s seat and looked at
Ladd, “You going to ride. your horse?”

Ladd took up the gelding’s reins.
“No.”

Old Doc opened his mouth, but he
looked away instead of saying any-
thing and slapped the horses with the
lines. Ladd followed the buckboard on
foot, leading his horse, not looking at
the men who removed their hats as the
procession passed.-A few oldtimers fell
in behind and followed out of Two
Springs to the burying ground on the
hill.

The grave had been dug. Ladd nod-
ded his thanks to Joe Spears, who wait-
ed, leaning on his shovel. Men came
forward quickly and lowered the cof-
fin into its resting place. Old Doc
took his Bible and without opening
the book read the Twenty-third Psalm.

After the last words Ladd thrust out
and took the shovel from Joe Spears
and filled in the grave. He took the
rough cross that bore his father’s name,
and last night’s date, and thrust it deep
at the head and pounded it down with
the shovel. When he straightened up,
he looked each man in the eye, around
the small circle. “I thank you for pay-
ing your respects,” he said.

“He was a fine man,” Old Doc said.

Ladd swung up into his saddle and -
rode off, heading away from town.

It was past noon when he came up
on Folsom range. He swung out from
the row of foothills that skirted his
straight-line route and kept beyond shot
of their draws and defiles. By the time
the sun was half down he could see
the trees of Summer Run pointing out
from the hills across the scorched range.
He was within two miles of the branch-
water bend that nested the Folsom
ranch houses. Off to his left was a
scattering of Folsom steers.

A small dust grew out of the dis-
tance ahead and bore toward him, One

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN 53

—two riders, he decided. He hunched
his shoulders and sat his horse.

One rider. At fifty yards she checked
—rearing. Then she broke out and
came on, the horse half trotting and
dancing sideways a time or two, until
she came to him.

“Martha,” he said.

She edged the horse in front of him,
her clear young face set with trouble.
“I’m sorry, John. It was a wicked, sin-
ful thing to happen.”

Ladd jerked the gelding’s
away.

She pushed her horse up quickly,
close at his side. “Wait!”

“No!” He felt her urgency press
him, and his anger swelled harshly,
even against her, “No!” he shouted.

“They'll kill you, too; they're wait-
ing for you.”

His laugh slapped her.

In anguish she repeated, “They’ll
kill you too. Please don’t go there!”

“You afraid for him or for me?”

She stared at him. “It is your hate
and your wild anger and your sorrow
over your father that makes you say
that to me, John.” The words caught
in her throat. “You know where I have
a mind to be. Did I not tell you last
night? And the night before?”

“You told me you were going to mar-
ry Tracey Folsom.”

“T did not tell you that in his house
was where I had a mind to be!”

head

H's TENSION was running through
the reins, startling the gelding. It
pranced impatiently. “Hathaway Fol-
som be damned! So out of charity he
raised an orphan. He can’t make you
marry a dead man.”

“I am like a daughter to him. He
loves me as well as his own son, He
wants me to marry his boy and never
leave Folsom. Oh, it’s more impossible
now than ever!” she cried. “Now you
kill Tracey and you will put the fence
higher than ever between you and me.”

He thought on the hated name, hat-

ing her now and everything tainted by
the name.

She blanched at the revelation on
his face and looked wildly away. Her
horse pulled the slackened reins for-
ward and dropped its head to crop at
the grazing grass. Then she crumpled
and cried out, “John, go back to Two
Springs and I’ll leave Folsom before
night, and come to you, We’ll go away
and begin again, with no Folsom blood
upon us.”

“Martha,” he spoke more gently. “I
believe you; I know you have to put
it that way. But here is the way it has.

to be. I’m going after Tracey Folsom;

then I’m coming back and take you
away from Hathaway Folsom and eve-
rything else that’s damned with the
name. That’s the way J have to do it.”

Her anger rose quickly to match his,
“You'll never come back; they'll trap
you. You’re a hating man, John. You
can’t see that killing leads to killing
and I’m between you and the Folsoms.
You kill Tracey, then you have to kill
Father, or he will have to kill you.
Either way, you are lost to me. Hath-
away Folsom is the only father I ever
had. I love him, As much as I love
you.”

She raised her whip. “You kill Hath-
away Folsom, and I'll have to hate
you. If he kills you, I'll hate him.
You’re the only one who can save us,
Let the law deal with Tracey.” She
drove the whip down hard, and the
frightened horse leaped away with her.

Ladd’s hate flared. He pointed the
gelding towards Folsom and put it into
a hard run that left Martha’s light
pony behind.

When he came up to the corral, he
pulled down to a walk and rounded the
rail, seeing the Folsom house before
him. His arms and his legs and his
whole body lifted with power. He
burned with sound and light that nar-
rowed down to the house porch, where
Hathaway Folsom sat and pointed his
white mustache at him, a rifle across

54 BETTER THAN NATURAL

`

his knees. The two Folsom hands in
the corral stood stiff legged, their heads
turning slowly along Ladd’s approach
to the man who waited.

At fifty feet the rifle lifted and
pointed, loosely held, at Ladd’s shirt.
At thirty feet he halted and swung out
of the saddle.

Hathaway Folsom said, “That'll be
close enough.”

Ladd said, “Tracey. Hiding behind
an old man?” He dropped the geld-
ing’s lines into the dust and started for-
ward.

The rifle came alive, no longer loose-
ly held. “I meant it ,” Hathaway Fol-
som said, “You ain’t coming more than
another step or two.”

Ladd saw the old man’s finger take
up the slack on the trigger. He stood

uite still, ready to throw himself to

e side and draw. The old man had
only one shot. There would be no
time for him to lever the rifle if he
could be made to miss.

Folsom said, “It won’t work. I ain’t
firing until after you start your move;
then you ain’t going to finish it.”

E DRUMMING of a horse on

the hard soil swelled up around
them. Neither man shifted his eyes
from the other. Then the sound was
gone, and Martha flung herself be-
tween them. “No!” she shouted.

Folsom said, “I’ll thank you to go
inside, Martha.” `

“I wont!” she cried out, “I won’t
do it!” She ran swiftly to Ladd. Before
he thought to move away, she had her
arms around his body. When she felt
his muscles tense to thrust her off, she
gasped frantically, “No! No! No!”

Ladd said, “You picked your side?”

“T love him!” she sobbed. “Can’t
you understand? I love him. Like you
loved your own father!”

For a long minute Ladd looked down
at the tears in her upturned eyes. “Ap-
peared to me he had a rifle down on
me, You afraid he might miss?”

He felt the tremor run through her.

“Do you think he would shoot me in
the back to kill you?”

“All right, Martha,’ Ladd said.
“You can go up on the porch with the
Folsoms; I won’t fight the old man.”

Folsom put down the rifle and got
on his feet. “Come here, girl,” he said
gently. Ladd heard pride in his voice.
“I didn’t want to have to kill you, boy,”
he went on. “I ain’t saying that if Ab-
ner Ladd and Tracey had to fight, that
I’m not glad it was him instead of
Tracey, I ain’t saying I ever like your
hanging around Martha, though I let
her make up her mind for herself. I am
saying I feel for a boy that’s lost his
Paw, and I ain’t wanting to fight him
for no other reason than he’s grieving.”

“T ain’t quite so tenderhearted.”

Ladd threw Martha off and swung
around. Folsom’s foreman stood facing
him, alertness boring out of his eyes.
He was gun ready. The two Folsom
hands lagged carefully at one side,
watching their awareness of a fight.

Buck Tambling was a big man, with
a name for a killing or two down Six-
shot way before he came to Folsom.
Ladd knew him for a slow drinker who
sat with Tracey Folsom at a corner
table, away from his riders.

Tambling rubbed his dusty whiskers
with a whole hand and spat into the
dust before him. “We ain’t looking for
no company here. Least of all yours.”
He spat again. “Now git, boy. Mr. Fol-
som don’t want no trouble on Folsom,
and I ain’t having none. Git for home.”

It was fight. Ladd surged with hot
relief. One, two, or three—there was
no caution in him. He narrowed down
on the man who baited him, waiting for
his move,

The hands shuffled further away.
Dimly Ladd heard Martha saying
something. Hathaway Folsom spoke
out, “Tambling, let the boy go in
peace.”

Buck Tambling held his grey stare.
“Mr. Folsom, I aims to do just that.
But I aims to chaw me him up right

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN 55

here, else he puts his tail between his
legs and gits for town, Tomorrow I
aims to go to town after him and chaw
me him up there, else he keeps on run-
ning and gits for the next county. You
about ready to git, boy? Or that sixgun
of yourn loaded?” His arm twitched.

Ladd’s gun leaped level on a shirt
button. As he squeezed off the shot, he
suddenly pushed the muzzle over an
inch and took Tambling in the gun
shoulder. The heavy slug drove the
man back down into the dust, his
drawn pistol spinning over him.

Ladd threw down on the two riders.
“You men in on this?”

They held their hands out wide from
their gun belts and shrugged. The lit-
tle one said, “I was hired to herd cows
—not nursemaid Tracey Folsom.” The
other nodded.

Hathaway Folsom said, “You two
take Buck into the house. Then you
can pick up your saddle bags and come
back for your time.” To Ladd he said,
“Tracey ain’t here. I made him get
out for a while to keep from having
more trouble. He’ll be coming back; if
you have to have trouble, I expect he’ll
oblige you.”

Tambling cursed Ladd bitterly.
“Tracey’ll oblige you all right. He’s in
Calico. Waiting for you, if you think
you’re lucky. Where your sheriff won’t
be around to get up a posse after he
kills you:”

“Tambling, you’re a fool,” Hath-
away Folsom said. He stared at Ladd
with chill eyes. “My advice to you—
stay away from Calico, you want to
live. Otherwise I guarantee you won't.”

Ladd got up on the gelding and rode
out past the corral. He did not want
to look back at Martha.

E WALKED the horse down the
slope to the branch and let it
drink deep while he knelt on the grav-
el to fill his canteen. The current drift-
ed from pool to pool, skirting the dry
shoals in narrow courses laced on the

far side by scattered willows. Down the
plain land to the Gila, itself obliging
the call of the Colorado, westering to
the ocean. Paw had.-liked to talk about
why men came West in the earliest
days. Gold—yes. Silver—maybe. Run-
ning from trouble—a lot of them. But
mostly westering—the oldtimers’ word,
westering, the itch to make distance
into the new country ahead.

Paw liked to marvel at the changes
in the Territory. “Before you’re my
age, people will live civilized in Ari-
zona with schools and railroads and
fine merchant stores—with the most
beautiful country that God ever made
all around them. She’ll grow up and
tame the bad ones and shame the shift-
less, but a man’ll always have room to
stretch and ride a hoss. You can’t tame
the land itself. Not this land. Mostly
she’s got to stay the way God made
her.”

Paw always talked about the Arizona
Territory as if she was a woman—a
beautiful woman dressed in dotted
mesas and mountains and veiled can-
yons and jeweled with high-piled white
clouds. A princess of Heaven, he called
her, chuckling a little himself when the
oldtimers guffawed to hear him talk.

The gelding nuzzled him. Ladd came
up out of his hunker, He splashed
across the water and rode into the
sun. Two miles out from the Folsom
house he turned along the edge of the
sharp, rocky rise that fronted him and
drew gradually off to the west. Not
that he figured Tracey Folsom for a
man to hide in the hills, yet not that
he tried to figure any man for certain,
as Paw had taught him. He stayed out
of rifle shot of big cover and pushed
steadily along. Once he fired his rifle
and dismounted to hang a jack rabbit
against his saddle roll. When he came
to a good clump of mesquite leaning
against the longer shadows, he stopped
while there was light enough to hide a
dry fire of the brittle thorny twigs.

The dark came on quickly while the

56 BETTER THAN NATURAL

meat was still toasting. When he had
satisfied himself on the stringy flesh,
he went to the bed he had readied un-
der the mesquite. He put his rifle down
with him at the side of the blanket and
rested his head back against his saddle.
In two minutes he was asleep.

By first light he got in the saddle,
munching cold rabbitt, and let the geld-
ing have its head in a morning canter.

The sun was low over the river when
he came into Calico’s street, a double
row of saloons, gambling halls, a board-
ing hotel, false front stores, and a liv-
ery stable, interspersed by open lots
and shack offices. Calico was unpaint-
ed, grey dusty, haphazard, and impos-
ing, for here dwelt, more or less per-
manently, four hundred souls. Al-
though diverse in origin—for it was
said that no man could live long enough
to have been born in Calico—they
were united in preying by means of
card, bottle, greasy vittles, merchan-
dise at triple even frontier prices, dubi-
ous services, and hazy advice upon
honest men who came to ford the river
and dishonest who tarried fraternally.
Otherwise Calico looked exactly like
Two Springs.

T ADD RODE the length of the

street to the ford, looking over the
brands on the horses at the hitching
rails before he turned back to the liv-
ery stable and unsaddled. While the
stableman fetched a bucket of water
and a measure of oats, he sauntered up
and down the stalls. When he picked
up his saddle bags and his rifle the
man asked him, “Looking for some-
body?”

“Looking for a good meal,” Ladd
told him, and went across the street
to the Calico House, palatially two-
storied. He paid a silver dollar for a
room and went upstairs to wash up.
He was starved, wondering at his hun-
ger and the usual appearance of things
that he had expected to be different, al-
ways, after he had come late into Two

Springs from meeting with Martha
and awakened in the morning to be
told.

When he got to Room 4 he put
down the saddle bags, shifted his rifle
to his left hand, and lifted the latch.
Picking up his burden, he pushed into
the room.

“Howdy, Mister.” The man on the
bed was fully clothed, with dusty boots
propped up on the foot rail.

“Maybe I got in the wrong room,”
Ladd answered him,

The door slammed shut behind him
and something poked hard in his side.
“You're in the right room, all right.”

Sixgun in hand, the other man eased
around in front of him and took Ladd’s
pistol from its holster. “Mighty fine
weapon.” He tossed it on the bed be-
side his partner. “Let’s have a look at
your rifle, too.” When he had the Win-
chester, he stepped over to the only
chair and sat down comfortably.

“You found the right room, all
right,” he repeated. “Leastways while
you were looking for horses we asked
the man downstairs to give you room
A?

Ladd dropped the saddle bags. He
had walked right into it—like a jack
rabbit into a simple deadfall. “I’m
looking for Tracey Folsom.” He bit
off the words in anger. “You men want
to take up for him, that’s all right
with me. br you afraid to gun fight?
Hiding up here.”

The man on the bed sat up and
stretched. “Real obliging fellow, down-
stairs, letting us have a nice restful
place like this to wait for you while
you did your horse chores.”

His partner nodded. “Mighty oblig-
ing.”

It didn’t make sense. “Why the gun
on me?” Ladd demanded.

The man on the bed stood up. “Real
pert, ain’t he? For a caught hoss-thief.”

Ladd stared at him. “I thought you
were Folsom hands. I’m John Ladd,
from Two Springs.”

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN 57

“Now he’s confessing,” the man on
the chair said.

“You men crazy?” Ladd snapped.

The other man said, “Joe, this man’s
talk is real interesting, but I’d better
get on with it.”

Joe crossed his legs easily, but his
sixgun held steady on the pit of Ladd’s
stomach. “Better hurry. It’ll look bet-
ter, we get it over fast.”

Ladd said, “You ain’t getting noth-
ing over fast. I’m taking my stuff and
leaving.”

hup,” the other man said, “Bet-
ter let me tell you something first.
That'll be just fine with us. When you
move—Joe, he shoots.” He picked up
Ladd’s pistol from the bed. “At the
same time we shoot off your gun and
throw it at your feet.” He grinned and
handed Ladd’s pistol to Joe. “So a
caught hossthief gets shot dead trying
to shoot his way out. Even when we’ve
got the drop on him, a hossthief might
figger on taking a chance like that.”

Joe held Ladd’s gun loosely in his
left hand. “Take out, Hank; I got
him.”

Ladd thought rapidly. “If this is a
shakedown, you men got poor pickings.
I haven’t got more than ten dollars on
me. Likewise horse stealings are hard
to prove unless you catch a man with
your horse.”

“That’s just what Hank’s about to
find, is his horse with your saddle and
saddle bags on him.” He nodded at the
bed. “Sit down and rest yourself,
Friend; unless you want to try escap-
ing. We ain’t got nothing against you
personally,”

HANK KICKED the saddle bags
away from Ladd’s feet; then
stooped to pick them up. “Be back in
ten minutes,” he announced and closed
the door behind him.

“You can’t make a shakedown like
that stick, even in Calico, putting my
stuff on another horse. Forty men
saw me ride in town less than an hour
ago on my own.”

“You know that’s what I told Buck
when he sprung the idea, To keep you
from shooting it out with Tracey Fol-
som, he says, and maybe killing the old
man’s boy. That’s just exactly what I
told him. And a long hard ride it’d be
down here, too. Take all night.”

“Buck Tambling!” Ladd exclaimed,
“So you are from Folsom.”

“May as well sit down and have a
smoke.”

‘What are you going to do when you
have to take that gun off me and go
away?” Ladd threw at him. “TIl be
coming for you later, and I won’t pull
off on you like I did Tambling.”

Joe waved again at the bed. “Sit
down and smoke. You know, you’re
mighty good at figgering things out.
That’s exactly what I told Buck. He
said he didn’t figger it would stick
either, and that is why you would have
to get killed dead trying to shoot your
way loose.”

Dumbfounded, Ladd sat down on
the bed. “Hathaway Folsom’s not go-
ing to hold for murder,” he said,
thinking rapidly.

“Old man Folsom’s got nothing to
do with it; this is Buck’s roundup.”

It was neat, Perfect. It was so sim-
ple there was no way out. “What’s it
worth to you and your partner to for-
get this?”

Joe looked at him speculatively.
“You must have riled Buck consider-
ably; it was worth fifty dollars apiece
to. him.”

“TIl make it a hundred.”

Joe pondered it over. “Buck
wouldn’t like it a bit.”

“You're a fool,” Ladd snarled.
“Tambling’s not going to pay you.”

Joe shook his head regretfully, “I
got to take a chance on Buck, but I

“ain't going to take a chance of having

him after me—and you too.” He
sucked reflectively at his teeth. “No,
it’s hard luck for you, Fellow, but it
can’t be helped.”

Ladd thought he could hear Paw’s

58 BETTER THAN NATURAL

watch ticking off the time in his pants
pocket. He sat immobile while the min-
utes fled, watching Joe’s easy air fade
and the man become tense. Ladd real-
ized the man was listening for Hank’s
tread on the stair.

Five feet away, but Joe had only to
pull a trigger, Even while his muscles
bunched involuntarily for the leap, he
held himself back, knowing it was as
hopeless as a man scooping for water
in loose sand. Joe had only to squeeze
the trigger, and the heavy .44 slug
would tear the life out of him before
he could get off the bed.

AREN THE steps sounded on the

stairs, Joe visibly relaxed. “I
kinda hate to do this,” he said, “so
we'll make it quick. As soon as Hank
says he’s got the hoss saddled.”

Ladd watched him narrowly, but his
eyes did not waver as the latch clicked
and the door cracked open.

“Well, who’d ever thought the boy
sheriff’d be caught horse thieving?”

At the first words Ladd swung,
jumping to his feet.

Tracey Folsom’s gun leaped into his
hand. “Hold back!” He stepped into
the room and let Hank come into the
room behind him, the saddle switch ap-
parently accomplished.

Ladd cursed him. “I might have
known you'd be in on a Stinking trick
like this.” 3

Tracey laughed tolerantly, smoothing
his moustache with his thumb. “I just
wanted to make sure the boys had the
right bird. Not that I don’t trust them,
I just don’t like to have a guncrazy
buck trailing me. Sorta spoils a man’s
pleasure, having to look out all the
time.” He put up his gun. “Watch him,
Joe. Give me ten minutes to get over
to the Spade Ace and get back in the
game.”

“Gun or no gun I’m coming for
you,” Ladd shouted; “you can shoot
and be damned, you damned murder-
er!”

Fingers curling, he started forward.

A crashing blow caught him on the
side of the head, and he was aware
that he was sitting on the floor.

When his eyes cleared a little, he
shook his head, The left side of his
face was numb,

“I had to slap you with my gun.”
Joe sounded far away, but his mind
clearing rapidly, he understood him.

“You shouldnt ought to have
started after Tracey,” Hank admon-
ished him. “Now you got yourself a
bad headache.”

Tracey Folsom was gone. One min-
ute or five or almost ten, Ladd remem-
bered, but he did not know how long.

Then it struck him. If Tracey had
only just gone, they would try to keep
from shooting’ until he got back to his
game, where he could sit with clean
hands.

He pretended to retch violently.

“Damn,” he heard Hank say, “you
hit him hard enough to kill a mule.”

Staggering and stretching, Ladd got
to his feet and lurched toward the win-
dow as if he were out on his feet. “He’s
going to be sick,” Joe said. Ladd felt
him push him towards the window.

He fell heavily against Joe, clutch-
ing blindly. Suddenly with a quick
twist he threw his knee hard into the
man’s groin, dropping him screaming
to the floor,

Before the startled Hank, eyes reg-
istered comprehension, Ladd dived for
Joe’s gun. He snatched it from the
floor and fired, watching with surging
joy while Hank was driven hard
around, the shot he rcflexively pulled
off smashing into the floor, Then the
eyes hardened, and the body fell.

Joe had fainted.

Hate boiling over, Ladd found his
own gun and took to the stairs.

E SPADE ACE was not crowded.
Tracey Folsom sat easily at a card
table, facing the door. He saw Ladd
the instant he stepped inside, his eyes
widening, amazed, then centering on
the pistol that covered him. He sat

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN 59

still, his palms flat on the table before
him. The hushing babble at the bar
swung the other card players around
to stare,

Ladd saw Tracey’s fingers crawl up,
tense against the table top. “I wouldn’t
try it,” he said. He stepped up to him,
“Just get up slow and turn around,”

Eyes hard grey, Tracey pushed back
his chair, his hands rising warily to his
shoulders.

Ladd stepped around to him and
jerked the Colt out of his holster. He
broke out the cylinder and threw the
gun clattering into the corner.

“You think you’re making an ar-
rest?” Tracey drawled.

“Pll calling the turn this time!”
Ladd rasped. “First I’m marching you
outside; then I’m going to kill you
with my bare hands.”

Tracey Folsom sneered.
reckon I might object to that?”

“Move out!”

Tracey put down his hands. “Come
on, Boys. I think he wants to fight.”
He unbuckled his gunbelt and threw
it on the table.

Ladd went to the bar and handed
across his belt and gun. “Hold these;
I don’t need them for him.”

They circled each other in the street
dust, testing the moment. When Ladd
could no longer hold down the flame
within, he threw his heavy weight for-
ward, stretched out, groping for Tra-
cey’s throat, A hard blow slammed
against his cheek bone, rocking his
head back, and the elusive figure be-
fore him laughed mockingly. He swung
heavy clubbing fists at it, anger out
of all control as they glanced away
from solid impact. He became only
dimy aware of the shocks of the belt-
ing he was taking.

Then Tracey moved in. He swung
hard into Ladd’s waist and drove a
loping fist home to his jaw. Ladd sat
in the dust, shaking his head. He
cleared his eyes in time to roll away
from the kick at his throat that would
have finished him. Clutching at the

“Ever

foot, he pulled Tracey flat on his back
in the dust.

Ladd made it to his feet. When Tra-
cey got his knees under him, he clubbed
him down again with a side-swinging
blow. Then he let him get all the way
up before he measured him and struck
him flat again.

Sobbing for air, Ladd became con-
scious of the roaring ring of men
around the fight. With each blow he
landed against the staggering object
pushing itself on its feet and trying to
cover itself up, they shouted, loud and
high-pitched. The fevered noise drove
him, raging hot for his kill.

The object went down, and Ladd
flung down on the wirey squirming
body, now thoughtless of the offensive,
trying only to shield itself.

It was not a small body. It was
tough and violent in its upthrusting. It
leaped and twisted and clawed and
kicked, but hands still bore against its
throat and Ladd looked down full into
the hateful, moustache-distorted, eye-
bulging face. Against the frantic
weight of arms straining supremely at
his hands, he tightened the grip and
leaned on it with the last of his power
while the convulsions against him
slackened wildly until they stilled.

A GUTTERAL, many-voiced excite-

ment rose up and smote against
him. He looked up wonderingly at the
lewd faces: twisted, intent, gaping-éx-
pectant. All at once he shoved himself
up from the dust, erect, staring at the
faces. “He’s not dead,” he told them
dully. “I didn’t kill him yet; I’m not
going to kill him.”

With one long-held breath exhaled,
the faces changed into jabbering herd-
ers, lone-trail prospectors, barkeeps
and store clerks, card players and gam-
blers, teamsters, loafers, and plain
dwellers of Calico,

Now they were talkative. “God, I
thought he was a goner.”

“Fair fistfight. Best man wins. Not
some dude gunslinger.”

60 BETTER THAN NATURAL

“Man to man—only way to settle
something.”

“Just got here in time to see the
last of it.”

“What started it?”

“You ought to finished him while
you had him down. Now you got an
enemy for life. Sooner or later he puts
a bullet in your back.”

Swaying on his feet with muscle
ache, Ladd heard them distantly. His
lungs pulled at the dry Arizona air. He
was looking afar, at the deepening sun-
set, reminded of quiet falling over plain
and hill and long-shadowed grass be-
side a clear branchwater. Now was the
time for a cooking fire and a slow pipe,
the feel of the starlight dark and Paw
talking about the early days. Somehow
he had not thought the fights and the
killings had ever been like this.

He spoke to the man with the town
marshal’s star, “I’m swearing out a
warant for this man for a killing up at
Two Springs. I want you to lock him
up until I get here with the papers to
take him back.”

The marshal stared. “You better go
get you a drink and set yourself down
a spell.”

“Pm telling you now,” Ladd
crowded the man. “He shot Abner
Ladd up at Two Springs Thursday
night, he’s going back to stand trial
for it. Gunfight or no gunfight, that’s
the law.” :

The marshal removed his dusty hat
to rub at his scalp. “Him beat out
Sheriff Ladd in a gun fight?” With
some wonderment he looked at Tracey.
“Who be you?”

Ladd told him, and at last he agreed
to take Tracey Folsom into custody,
shaking his head and wondering over
Sheriff Abner Ladd, of whom he al-
lowed he had heard a lot. “He gave
Two Spings the name of a bad town
for a man to get in trouble in.”

Ladd corrected him. “He made it a
good town for a man to stay out of
trouble in.”

Foersom RANCH house came in

view as he topped the rise. Ladd
got up in the stirrups and dismounted
to limber his saddle-weary legs.

He was confident and sure. He
knocked out his pipe and rode down
the long sloping land towards Summer
Run and Folsom house, Indifferent to
the curiosity of the cook who came out
of his cook shack, he rode past the de-
serted corral and up to the porch.

“Martha!” he shouted. “Martha!”

With a flurry of running footfalls on
wooden floor she burst from the house.

“John! John, it’s you!” Her hand
went up to her throat. “Your face! Did
you—?”

“No.” He touched the bruises with
his fingertips. “He’s in Calico jail; I
fought with him and put him in jail.”

“Pm glad!” she cried. “Oh, John,
I’ve worried to death. You could have
been killed!”

Ladd said, “Come here and get on
this horse. You’re not taking anything
from here but the clothes on your back,
and were sending those back tomor-
row.”

“Go with you? Now?” She retreated
up the porch. “I couldn’t; not now.”

“Now!”

“Father’s away. I’ll have to tell him.
I'll have to explain to him.”

Ladd said, “Martha, I mean it. You
come here and get on this horse.”

She turned, as if to escape. She °
brushed at her hair and looked around,
for what kind of help Ladd could not
suppose. “John!” she cried and ran
down the steps.

Ladd swung her up into the saddle.
“This horse is tired, but he’s not that
tired. Let’s go. I got a badge to pick
up.”

After a while she said, “I’ll write
Father when you send back by dress.”

Some time later he answered her, “I
got to say I didn’t do it for you.”

“T know,” she said.

*

There was nothing you could pin on
Harry Doyle except that he claimed
he’d bought out Matt Munsey, and
Munsey had disappeared. But Ahab
Gray had a plan which might make
a guilty man betray himself...

by PETER NORCROSS

THIN wisp of smoke curled

lazily upward above the tops

of, the tall cottonweed trees in
the distance, climbed gently, unhur-
riedly, into the reaches of the vast blue
sky. Ahab Gray watching it, grinned
happily.

The big black horse, too, seemed to
sense the nearness of food and shel-
ter and he quickened his pace. They
loped over the thick, lush grass of the
valley floor, topped a rise and came in
sight of the cabin.

Gray nudged the biack with his
knees, mechanically, and the big horse
broke into a swift gallop.

There was a man standing in the
open doorway of the cabin.

61

The stretched rope trick was good.

at ‚t ba d

m a ae

“Matt!” Gray yelled through cupped
hands.

He saw the man look up quickly and
step out, but curiously there was no
answering shout or acknowledging
wave of his hand. There was something
lacking...that wasn’t the way Matt
Munsey usually greeted an old friend.
Gray’s spurs grazed the black’s flanks
ard the big horse flashed over the
ground at breakneck speed. They came
whirling up to the cabin and Gray’s
fears about Matt vanished instantly.
The man was a stranger, a stocky gent
with a swarthy, unshaven face, The
black slid to a stiff-legged halt.

“Howdy,” Gray aaid.

62 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

The man did not reply. His eyes
ranged over the big horse, upward and
over the black-clad man astride him.
His probing eyes lingered longest over
the brace of heavy Colts that swung
against Gray’s thighs.

“Howdy,” he grunted finally.

Gray shoved his dust-streaked hat
upward, away from his eyes.

“Matt around?”

“Who?”

Gray looked back surprised. Cer-
tainly he was taken back.

“Matt Munsey. This is his place,
ain’t it?”

“Was once,” the man replied. “Ain’t

’ny more.”
“Yuh mean Matts gone.. .sold
out?”

The stocky man hitched up his belt.
He swung his holster a bit farther front.
“Yep. Sold out t me.”

“Wa-al I'll be doggoned! Where’d he
go to? An’ how long ago did this hap-

pen?”

A scowl deepened on the man’s face.
“Wait a minute, Mister,’ he said
curtly.. “Who are you? Friend ©
Munsey’s?”

“Course. Think I’d bother askin’ so
danged many questions if I wasn’t?”

Their eyes met and clashed. There
was momentary pause, a silence. The
man finally shrugged ‘his shoulders.

“Whatever you say, Mister,” he said
calmly. “It ain’t that I aim t’ be ornery
or anythin’, It’s on’y that there’s been a
hull heap o’ th’ meanest-lookin critters
turnin’ up in these parts lately that’s
makin’ me s’ damned leery an’ suspi-
cious. Most o’ them look like they’re
just about to whoop an’ a holler ahead
uv a sheriff an’ a hangin’ an’ they’re
plumb full 0’ questions, too.

“But if you say yuh’re a freiend o’

Matt Munsey’s it’s awright with me. .

I’ve told yuh all I know ’bout ’im ’cept
mebbe how fed up he was with things
aroun’ here. Anyway, when I made ’im

’n offer he snapped it up, took is mon-
ey an’ went.”

“T see. An’ how long ago did yuh
say that was?”

“T didn’t say, but it was ‘bout three
months ago.” :

Gray settled his hat on his head.

“Oh, yeah,” the man added as an
after thought. “Now that I think back,
Munsey said somethin’ ’bout wantin’ t?
see what California was like. Yep, that’s
where he said he was goin’.”

Gray nodded.

“California, eh?” he mused thought-
fully, then he nodded again. “Uh-huh.
that sounds like Matt awright. Far
back’s I c’n remember he was allus
talkin’ about California an’ about goin’
there sometime. Fr’m what yuh’ve just
made it, eh? Wa-al, that’s that. There
ain’t ’ny-thing I c’n do about it. I’m
obliged to yuh, partner, fr tellin’ me
what happened.”

He wheeled the black.

“Oh yeah,” he said over his shoul-
der. “My name’s Gray. Don’t think
I got yourn.”

“Nope,” the stocky man_ replied.
“Don’t think yuh did. It’s Doyle, Hen-
ry Doyle. An’ if yuh wanna check up
on me, soon’s yuh hit town head fr th’
sheriff’s office. Th’ bill o’ sale’s on file
there.”

AHAB GRAY halted the black just
inside the town. It was a typical
cow town; there was but a single street
with a varied assortment of shacks and
stores, half of them saloons, a hotel of
sorts, a livery stable and the usual
undertaker-barber shop.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered. “Same’s a
hundred other towns I’ve been in.
Deader’n all hell in th’ daytime an’ full
o° hell at night when th’ punchers fr’m
th’ ranches come ridin’ in lookin’ fr
excitement an’ a little liquid r’fresh-
ment.”

He nudged the black with his knees
and the big horse jogged on. A lone
horse was tied up at the hitching-rail
in front of a saloon. He looked up

PHANTOM HOOVES 63.

eagerly when the black came clattering
up the street, whinnied and twisted
around. The black snorted an acknowl-
edgement and went on.

A bit farther down the street, two
men were standing in the doorway of

the hotel. They halted their conversa-

tion and gave Gray an inquiring glance;
he loped past them and they promptly
forgot about him, turned their heads
away and resumed their conversation.

Fifty feet beyond the hotel a sign
with faded, weather-beaten letters that
formed the word, Sheriff, jutted out
from above the doorway of a single-
story high building. Gray pulled up,
dismounted, trudged across the narrow
wooden sidewalk to the door, opened it
and looked in. There was a badly bat-
tered desk in the very middle of the
room; a burly man, thumbing through
a handful of papers, sat behind the
desk.

“Howdy,” Gray said.

The man looked up. “Howdy.”

“You th’ sheriff?”

“Thats what th’ sign outside says,
don’t it?”

Gray grinned. He stepped inside,
closed the door behind him and saun-
tered forward to the desk.

“Alwright, Mister. What’ll
have?”

“Just
answered.
sey.”

“Ware? Why?”

“Why?” Gray echoed in surprise.
“I’m a friend o his. That good
enough reason fr me wantin’ t’ see
im?”

yuh

sme info’mation,” Gray
“I’m lookin’ fr Matt Mun-

TE BURLY man shrugged his
shoulders. “Might be.”

Gray gave him a cold stare. “I
stopped at Matt’s place,” he went on
again presently, “but he wasn’t there.
Found a feller named Doyle there
instead. He told me Matt sold out t’
him. That right?”

“Far’s I know it is,”

“I see. Th’ bill o’ sale been regis-
tered here?”

“ep

“Matt sign it?”

“Yep, with a cress,” the sheriff
answered, “Same’s he alus signed
things bein’ he couldn’t write a lick.
Anythin’ else yuh wanna know?”

“Cn I see th’ thing?”

“Y’mean th’ bill ọ sale? Doggone
it, man...ain’t I just told yuh that
it’s registered here?”

“Yeah, shore...on’y whose name’s
on it as a witness to th’ deal?”

The sheriff frowned. “Mine,” he
snapped.

“Oh...then you saw Matt sign it,”
Gray pressed him, “leastways, make his
mark on it?”

The frown deepened on the sher-
iff’s face. “Hold on a minute,” he
sputtered indignantly. “Who’n hell are
you, anyway, huh...an’ what right you
got bustin’ in here an’ firin’ ques-
tions at me?”

“Ym a citizen an’ that gives me
some rights,” Gray retorted. “But just
in case they ain’t enough, I got a
couple o’ fellers named Colt along t’ do
my talkin’. Let’s see if they c’n sat-
isfy yuh. Here!”

H's HANDS dropped. His shoul-
ders twitched the barest bit. Two

big Colts fairly leaped upward from his
holsters, into his hands. The sheriff's -
eyes bulged. He gulped, swallowed hard.
It was incredulous...he hadn’t seen
Ahab Gray go through the usual draw-
ing motions, yet here he was staring
at the muzzles of the blackclad man’s
guns and they seemed to expand with
each passing second. He moistened his
parched lips. Gray, watching him,
grunted and finally holstered his guns.

“Tm listenin’,” he said curtly

“Wa-al,” the sheriff began present-
ly. “Fars I c’n r’member it, Doyle
bring th’ bill o’ sale into me tø-
gether with th’ fee.”

“Matt had made his mark on it

64 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

already, see? Far’s I could see it shore
looked like it was his, so I just took
it an’ registered it like I’m s’pposed
to. That’s all there was to it.”

Gray snorted scornfully. “That’s
what you think,” he snapped. “Tell me
...how long’d you know Matt?”

The sheriff looked ceilingward for a
thoughtful moment. “O-h, couple 0’
years, I s’ppose. Why?”

“Know his wife, too?”

“Jennie? I shore did. She was a
fine woman, Mister. But heck. ..she’s
dead, y’know. Has been f’r quite a
spell, too.”

“ ? Course I know,” Gray said gruf-
fly. “D’yuh know where she’s buried?”

“Yep...right on th’ place.”

“Uh-huh, so’s she’d never be outta.

Matt’s sight. That oughta give yuh ’n
idea o’ how loco he was about ’er,
dead or alive. She still in th’ same
place?”

“Yep...leastways she was th’ last
time I come past there. That was on’y
last week, too, Thursd’y I think it
was.”

“Alwright then. Now c’n you pic-
ture Matt leavin’ her there, in some
stranger’s hands, while he heads f’r
California, not knowin’ whether or not
he’s ever comin’ back again?”

“Never thought o’ that,” the sher-
iff admitted begrudgingly. “Now that
I think uv it, I’m kinda s’prised that
Matt didn’t move er’ out t’ th’ ceme-
tery we got outside o° town. She’da
been awright there.”

“Course,” Gray said quickly. “An’
b’cause he didn’t do it I’m more’n
just a mite suspicious o’ th’ hull thing.”

The sheriff shook his head. “Just
what’n hell are you drivin’ at, Mis-
ter?”

Gray stiffened. “Sheriff, you ain’t
just natur’lly dumb,” he said coldly,
with finality. “You’re unnatur’lly
dumb. You’re dumber’n all hell an’ no
mistake.”

He turned on his heel.

“Wait a minute,” the sheriff called.

Gray looked back at him over his

shoulder, gave him a cold stare. He
reached the door, flung it open and
stalked out. The sheriff frowned,
rubbed his bristly chin with his right
thumb, slowly and thoughtfully.

“I dunno,’ he muttered presently.
“Mebbe I am dumb. I’m doggoned if I
c’n savvy what he was drivin’ at.”

|S eaten brought an end to

the town’s daytime comparative
calm and quiet. With the first length-
ening shadows, flickering lights ap-
peared in the store and saloon windows
along the street, then a sharp, furious
clatter of approaching hoofs signalled
the arrival of the first bunch of
punchers from one of the outlying
ranches. They came into town at a full
gallop, whooping and yelling, whirled
up the street and jerked to a halt in
front of their favorite saloon. Another
group followed close behind, dashed
past them and reined in a bit farther
up the street.

It was a moment’s work to dismount
and tie up their horses at the hitching
posts and rails. There was loud, un-
guarded talk and uproarious laughter;
there was considerable horseplay and
roughhouse, the exuberance of nature-
toughened, carefree men who lived each
day for itself and who gave no thought
to the morrow. Their day’s work was
done.

Ahab Gray halted the black in front
of one of the larger saloons. There wa
no name on its dirt-streaked window,
nothing but the last three letters of the
word “saloon.” He dismounted, tied up
the big horse at the rail, dodged another
horse’s swishing tail and sauntered
across the sidewalk. A couple of men
were standing just inside the doorway
of the saloon; they stepped aside in
order to permit him to enter. One of the
men gave him a casual nod of greeting
and Gray gravely acknowledged it with
a nod of his own.

Billowing tobacco smoke hung mo-
tionlessly overhead, like an anchored
cloud. The stronger smell of hops and

PHANTOM HOOVES 65

beer was almost overpowering and
breathtaking at first; but once within
the saloon one soon forgot them. The
bar was crowded...one or two men
standing there turned and glanced at
him as he approached but beyond that
no one seemed to take much notice of
him.

He found a vacant spot near the end
of the bar. . .the bartender looked up at
him, questioningly but appraisingly. His
eyes ranged over the black-clad man.
In that brief moment’s glance he made
his own decision as to what a man of
Ahab Gray’s type would drink. Obvi-
ously he decided that Gray was not a
beer drinker for he planted a small
glass on the bar in front of Gray, fol-
lowed it with an uncorked bottle of
whiskey. He watched for another mo-
ment. ..when Gray reached for the bot-
tle, the bartender’s expression was one
of satisfaction and vindication. Present-
ly he turned away.

Gray poured himelf a drink, downed
it, dropped a coin on the wet surface
of the bar and turned around. His eyes
swept the place. It was crowded to ca-
pacity, with every table occupied. Card
games were in progress at almost all of
them. A far-corner table, a bit larger
than the others, with half a dozen men

sitting around it, playing poker, caught

his eye for one of them was the stocky,
swarthy Doyle. Gray straightened up,
hitched up his gunbelt mechanically,
sauntered away from the bar. He
threaded his way past the other tables,
halted when he came to Doyle’s. The
latter looked up, nodded to Gray, tossed
his cards away. “Still around, eh?”

“Yep, layin’ over fr a couple ©
days.”

Doyle gave him a sidelong glance
... there was a raking-in of the pot, a
rather meagre one, then another deal-
ing-out with his cards. Gray noticed a
small, leather-thonged bag at Doyle’s
elbow. Doyle studied his cards for a
moment, grinned, then he laughed
aloud. He opened the bag, drew some-

thing out of it, hefted it and slid it
into the middle of the table.

“It’s open,” Doyle said. ‘“Tinhorns
stay out.”

One of the other players reached for
the tiny nugget, picked it up and ex-
amined it interestedly.

“S’awright, partner,”
gruffly. “It’s gold.”

The man nodded quickly. “I c’n see
that awright,”’ he said. “I was s’prised,
that’s all, b’cause there ain’t been ‘ny
strikes ’round these parts in a helluva
long time.”

A scowl darkened Doyle’s normally
dark face. “So what?” he retorted.
“This th’ on’y place in th’ hull world
that ever had ’nybody strike gold?”

“Nope,” the other man said easily.
“But you couldn’t’ve dug up this hunk
o’ gold far away fr’m here. This ain’t
outta th’ ground long. ..there’s a tiny
speck o’ dirt still clingin’ to it an’ it’s
damp an’ fresh.”

Doyle’s lips thinned. “You playin’
poker, Mister, or you just tin-hornin’?”
he asked coldly.

“Pm playin’.”

“Then shut up!”

The man dropped a twenty-dollar
gold piece on the table. The other play-
ers tossed their cards away.

“How many, Doyle?” the dealer
asked.

“I got more’n enough now.”

“How ’bout you, Tom?”

“Two’ll do, pr’vided they’re good.”

Harry Doyle relaxed. He grinned
easily now, settled himself a bit more
comfortably in his chair. “Give ’im th’
hull deck,”- he said almost amiably,
“There ain’t ’ny better ones left in it
than I got a’ready.”

Tom tossed aside his unwanted cards,
picked up his “draw.” Doyle planted
another nugget, a larger one than the
first, in the middle of the table.

“That’s worth fifty, partner. You got
guts enough t’ match it?” he asked,
making no attempt to conceal his scorn.

Doyle said

66 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

T= MAN named Tom smiled light-

ly. He dropped a couple of gold
pieces on the. table, added two more.
Doyle stared at him with widened eyes.
“You raisin’ me?”

“Shore, ’less there’s a law against
ifs?

Doyle scowled darkly again. Two
more large-sized nuggets clinked metal-
lically on the table. “I’m raisin’ you,”
he snapped.

Tom nodded, dropped a couple of

gold pieces on the table. Doyle grunt- `

ed, shoved them into the middle of the
table.

“Awright, Doyle,” Tom said present-
ly. “What’ve yuh got?”

The swarthy man laughed. “Four
aces,” he replied and spread his cards
out on the table. “How d’yuh like them
apples, partner?”

Tom laughed softly. “Awright, on’y
I like these a heap better,” he said,
putting down his cards, spreading them
out in a single row. “Straight flush,
Doyle. Queen high.”

The swarthy face of Doyle seemed
curiously-white for a moment. “TIl be
damned!” he gasped. He caught up the
bag, tore it open, dumped its contents
on the table. “There’s a thousand in
there. Match it, winner take all, any
way yuh like!”

Tom was silent for a moment. He
raked in the nuggets, heaped them in
a tiny pile in front of him, picked up
the gold pieces and stacked them be-
side the nuggets.

“Well?” Doyle demanded impatient-
ly.

Tom glanced at him, however he did
not answer,

The swarthy man’s lips curled. “Just
like I figgered,” he said sneeringly.
“Ain’t got th’ guts.”

One of the men sitting on the op-
posite side of the table leaned forward.
“Tom,” he said, “if yuh’re holdin’ back
b’cause yuh’re short, just say th’ word.
I got four or five hun’erd here yuh

c’n have. Your credit an’ word’s good
enough f’r me, y’know.”

Harry Doyle snorted loudly, but he
refrained from making any comment.

“Thanks, Jerry,” Tom said finally.
“If yuh’re willin’ t? lemme have three
hundred, reckon that'll do it just
right.”

“Three hun’erd it is,” Jerry said
heartily, and shoved a handful of crum-
pled bills across the table. “Here y’are,
Tom.” -

Ahab Gray turned away. He had
seen and heard enough; now he felt the
need for quiet thinking. He hitched up
his gunbelt, strode out of the place,
halted for a moment on the sidewalk.
The black raised his head, whinnied
softly.

“Gold,” he muttered to himself. “An’
fresh from dirt still clingin’ to it.”

The light from the kerosene lamps
in the saloon sifted through its dirty
windows and open door and cast an
eerie, yellowish gleam over the side-
walk and the rutted gutter and reached
a point probably a foot or two short of
midway across.

“Gold,” Gray repeated thoughtiully.
“An’ th’ funny thing about it is that
there ain’t been ‘ny strikes r’ported
‘round these parts in some time.”

He stepped to the curb and down
into the gutter, warily circled a group
of impatient, ground-pawing horses
that were tied up at the rail alongside
the black, untied the big horse and '
backed him into the street. He climbed
up into the saddle, wheeled the black
and sent him loping down the street.

E FAR-SPREADING, limitless
sky was blue and star-studded. A
breathless silence, a hushed stillness,
had draped its veil over the range, the
valley, even the foothills now barely
discernible against the distant, northern
skvlines. Yet beneath it one heard
what appeared to be a faint, indistinct
babbling, a murmuring of voices, and
light, carefree, musical laughter. Pres-
ently, however, one realized that it was

PHANTOM HOOVES 67

purely imaginary, that the murmuring,
even the fancied laughter, was nothing
more than the stirring created by a
vagrant breeze that droned fleetingly
through the grass and rustled the
leaves. Then the breeze died down and
everything was still again.

Somewhere in the enveloping dark-
ness a twig cracked, shattering the si-
lence again, and a horseman flashed by
with unbelievable swiftness. Suddenly,
too, a light appeared in the darkness
and where just a moment before noth-
ing but solid blackness had been visible,
the dim outline of a small, rambling
ranch-house now took form. The door
of the house was opened a bit and a
man peered out, cautiously at first for
a hoof beat in the dead of night might
mean a raid, and a-man’s life might de-
pend upon his ability to preserve it.

When nothing happened, the man
opened the door wider, stepped out-
side, a stocky, half-dressed figure with
a rifle in his hand, silhouetted against
the background of shaded lamplight.
For a minute or two the man stared
into the darkness about him. When a
shadow that blended with the distort-
ing night light suddenly arose and
moved, the man’s rifle jerked upward
and flame spurted from its muzzle. The
accompanying crash of the explosion
was startlingly frightening.

But presently the shadow lost what-
ever resemblance it might have had to
human form, billowed skyward and dis-
solved into nothingness. The man low-
ered his rifle. But he still waited,
tensed and rigid in the open doorway.
The minutes passed. The man relaxed,
trudged back inside, slammed the door
and presently the light went out.

Three times more in the waning
hours of the night the swelling then
almost instantly retreating echo of
flashing hoofbeats shattered the si-
lence; each time the man bounded from
his bed and each time his sleepladen,
heavy-lidded eyes fancied a movement
or a stirring somewhere in the darkness

beyond and each time the rifle belched
flame. But then he heard the hoofbeats
fading away in the distance, and he
cursed aloud, lowered his rifle angrily
and plodded back into the house. Each
time he slammed the door shut a bit
louder than before.

Eventually it was morning. The dawn
light appeared on the horizon, deep-
ened into a glow, pierced the veil of
darkness; quickly an unseen hand
whisked the shadowy mantle away.
Trees and brush and boulders, the
house itself, the foothills northward, `
suddenly burst into view and being.
Everything earthly stood out boldly
against the awakening, brightening
sky. But the stocky man, wearied and
sleeplessly heavy-eyed, found the day-
light even more exacting and demand-
ing than the obscuring night.

A fatigued mind built up his un-
known tormentor to frightening heights.
It forced him to remain indoors for
behind each tree and boulder he was
certain an enemy lurked. There was no
rest for him, no respite. He alternated
between the windows and peering out,
probing the trees and brush, and the
door where he listened intently. Every
sound, real and imaginary, caused him
to stiffen with expectation. But even
inside the house the very echo of his
own footfall startled him and caused
him to jump or whirl.

MORNING passed, noon, then the

early afternoon. Time hung heavi-
ly on the tired Harry Doyle, who was
waiting for something to return, a some-
thing that was a horseman who cun-
ningly refused to show himself in the
light of day and thus betray himself;
a man who declined to give him even
the tiniest clue to his identity, and
above all, to reveal his purpose in tor-
menting him. Through his mind parad-
ed the faces of practically everyone
whom he had ever known. Some of
them were vague and faint and he dis-
missed them without much ado. Tom,
Jerry, the sheriff, the bartender, every-

eer

68 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

one in the town and in the county came
in for study, some more prolonged than
others.

Ahab Gray, too, was considered but
Doyle was satisfied that it couldn’t be
the black-clad man. Gray was doubtless
a drifter; he would be on his way again
shortly and that would be the end of
him.

The afternoon wore away and at
dusk the sun slipped silently by into
a distant point in the west. A last, fleet-
ing glimpse at the earth below, then it
disappeared. The early shadows of eve-
ning appeared and Doyle checked the
bolts on the windows and the back
door, drew down the faded blinds over
the windows, and took up his vigil in a
chair just behind the crack of the slight-
ly opened front door. His rifle, fully
loaded again, he laid across his knees.
This time, he told himself grimly, he
would be ready for instant action when
the ghost rider returned. —

Night came on swiftly, surprisingly
so to the waiting man, and his uneasi-
ness increased. Never before had he
known night to fall so quickly. His
tired mind decided that even the ele-
ments had joined the conspiracy against
him. He clutched the rifle tightly. This
was a new experience for him; he was
afraid. It was a strange kind of fear
that gripped him, the uneasy, distorted
fear of the unknown. If only he knew
who this unknown. horseman was, knew
what he was up to!

Suddenly he heard the thunderous
pounding of racing hoofs. He sprang
to his feet, flung open the door and
burst out. He whirled to meet the on-
coming horseman, his rifle raised and
ready. The silence, the waiting, his
sleeplessness, everything emotional
combined within him. He could con-
trol himself no longer.

“Come on, damn yuh!” he screamed
hysterically. “Come on!”

Then there was a curious, puzzling

_ silence. ..the hoofbeats slackened and

died away. Doyle scowled. . . he couldn’t

understand what had happened. Slow-
ly, guardedly the rifle came down, then
with -startling suddenness the furious
clatter broke out again, swelled to its
highest pitch and in almost the same
instant ceased.

Too late, Doyle realized what had
happened and how he himself had con-
tributed to it...his cry had warned
the ghost rider away, had caused him
to check his mount, swerve him away
from the front of the house and into
the lush, sound-absorbing grass that
flanked it and send him pounding
around the rear! In another moment,
while the swarthy man stood rooted to
the very ground, he was gone and his
horse’s flashing hoofs had swept him
away into the protective darkness.

Doyle tramped back to his chair,
seated himself heavily, and laid the
rifle across his knees. He noticed then
that his hands were clammy with sweat.
He wiped them on his pants, mopped
his face and forehead with his shirt
sleeve. Suddenly he sat upright. He `
arose, stiffly but with alacrity, trudged
through the darkened house to the rear.
He unlocked the back door, put down
his rifle and emerged into the open.
There was a squat, shadow-distorted
structure...a tool shed it later devel-
oped...some twenty feet beyond the
house. He strode briskly and directly
to the shed; the door creaked open and
he disappeared inside the building.

He backed out a minute later, drag-
ging a heavy coil rope along the ground.
He halted midway between the shed
and the house, caught up a loose end
of the coil, carried it away and looped
it around a tree stump beside the house,
jerked the rope taut, then he backed
ae into the darkness, playing out the
coil.

oe WERE sturdy-trunked trees

beyond the shed and on both sides
of it. Doyle whirled the rope around
them, pulled it tight. Presently, he was
finished; he had roped off a consider-
able area. He tested the rope, pushed

PHANTOM HOOVES 69

it down until it was barely a foot above
the ground, then he straightened up,
laughed softly, evilly, and went back
indoors.

He returned to his chair, satisfied
that he had prepared a perfect trap.
A smile toyed at the corners of his
mouth. He was already picturing the
result of his labors and ingenuity...
he could actually “see” the ghost rider
tearing around the house, his horse
plunging full tilt into the taut, dark-
ness-obscured rope, stumbling and hurl-
ing his rider over his head. Doyle
laughed. He seemed easier now, more
relaxed, his tiredness forgotten, patient
and content to await developments now
that he had taken steps to counteract
them.

Time went by, ten minutes, twenty
minutes, a half hour, then a full hour,
a drawn-out eternity for the tired and
impatient Harry Doyle. The smile of
cunning and of expected triumph van-
ished. Time and the failure of the ghost
rider to return had already taken the
edge off Doyle’s surefire plan. The
anxious waiting, the necessity for being
continually on the alert, the heavy si-
lence. ..began to: pall upon him.

He again became aware of his ex-
treme weariness and he began to lose
‘confidence. His tiredness made him in-
creasingly restless. He shifted himself
in his chair, first this way, then that,
finally climbed to his feet, opened the
door a bit wider and peered out, prob-
ing the night light and flitting shadows
with anxious eyes.

He muttered something to himself,
an indistinct grumbling generously
studded with curses, turned away from
the door, put down his rifle beside the
chair and plodded away through the
darkness to the kitchen. He returned
shortly, wiped his mouth with his shirt
sleeve. Again he peered out but he
could see nothing unusual. He came
away from the door, stood thoughtfully
beside his chair for a moment then he
tramped off again.

When he returned he was clutching
a bottle of whiskey which he placed
on the floor beside the chair. He sat
down again, uncorked the bottle and
raised it to his mouth. He drank deep-
ly, sighed and took another swallow.
He wiped his lips with his sleeve, put
down the bottle between his feet. He
sank back in the chair, remembered
the cork in his hand, raised his arm
and threw the thing away. He closed
his eyes and sighed. . .if only he could
sleep.

But after a moment’s rest, he opened
his eyes again, forcibly and reluctantly,
but there was no avoiding it. He reached
for the rifle, lifted it and laid it across
his knees. He fumbled along the floor
for the whiskey bottle, cursed angrily
when he failed to find it, remembered
then that he had put it down between
his feet, caught it up and took still an-
other drink.

Some of the whiskey ran down his
stubbly chin and dampened his shirt-
front but he disregarded it. He gagged
and coughed, put down the bottle,
yawned and settled back in the chair.
He stretched his legs, heard the half-
emptied bottle topple over to the floor
but he was too tired to retrieve it. He
heard it roll across the floor, heard it
collide with something on the far side
of the room.

His eyes closed gently. Minutes
passed. A sigh of weariness escaped
him, then a snore. Harry Doyle was
asleep. The rifle slipped off his knees,
slid down along his legs and clattered
to the floor. The door creaked and
opened, halted only when it collided
with the arm of his chair.

Shadows that were definitely shad-
ows flitted about with the gentle easy,
capering grace of shadows; now a shad-
ow that was man-made arose, separat-
ed itself from the enveloping darkness.
The figure of a tall man emerged, halt-
ed briefly in the open. The man stud-
ied the house, suddenly bolted off to-
ward the front of it. He raced over the

70 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

ground with the stride and fleetness of
a deer, noiselessly as one, too, flattened
out against the wall, seeking the pro-
tection of its shadowy darkness, then
he -crept toward the front door. The
darkness veiled his face, prevented
one’s seeing the look of surprise on it
when he found the door ajar. He was
motionless for the briefest of moments,
then he burst into the house. There
was a loud yell from within, a shert-
lived scuffle judging by the swiftness
with which silence again prevailed, a
lull, then a light suddenly appeared in
the house.

HE SUN-DRENCHED street was

deserted. In the bright light of
morning the shacks and buildings that
lined the street seemed more faded
than ever. There was a clatter of hoofs,
totally unnoticed for it was much too
warm for anyone to bestir himself and
peer out. The horseman reined in
front of the sheriff’s office. He dis-
mounted...one heard his step on the
wooden sidewalk. He pushed the door
open.

The sheriff was seated at his desk.
There were two other men present...
one of them was perched on the edge
of the desk while his companion was
squatting on his heels, his back against
the far wall. All three men looked up,
looked at the tall, black-clad man
standing in the open doorway. The
sheriff frowned. © ,

“Oh...it’s you again, eh?”

“Yep,” Ahab Gray answered evenly.
“Ym back again.”

The other men eyed Gray interested-
ly. The one who had perched himself
on the desk nodded to him, added a
friendly grin.

“Howdy,” he said. “Don’t pay ’ny
*ttention to Gabe. Th’ heat’s got ’im
down.”

Gray sauntered forward to the desk.
The sheriff looked up at him critically.

“Hope you ain’t plannin’ t’ go into
that danged Munsey bus’ness again,

Mister,” he said. “It’s too doggoned
hot fr arguin’.”

“Keep your shirt on,” Gray replied.
“I got other things t’ do b’side argue.”

The sheriff grunted. “Then why
don’tcha go an’ do ’em?”

“T aim to, presently,” Gray retort-
ed. “If yuh think yuh c’n stop belly-
achin’ about th’ heat f’r a minute an’
keep them ears o’ yours frm flappin’,
I got somethin’ interestin’ t’ tell you.”

“You needn’ta bothered t’ go outta
your way just t let me know yuh was
leavin’ town,” the sheriff said dryly.

Gray’s eyes gleamed menacingly and
the sheriff quickly averted his eyes. But
he looked up again presently. ““Wa-al?”
he demanded. “What’s botherin’ yuh
tday?”

“Thought you might like t’ know
that I found Matt Munsey,” Gray said
quietly.

“Yuh found ’im?” the sheriff repeat-
ed. “What’s that s’pposed t’ mean?
Didn’t he go t’ California like he said
he was goin?”

“Like he said, hell!” Gray snapped.
“Yuh mean like Doyle said! Matt

, didn’t go anywheres. He’s dead. I found

his body wedged into his wife’s cof-
fin

PHANTOM HOOVES 71

The sheriffs eyes bulged. The man

sitting on the desk sprang to his feet.

“Yuh mean Matt was murdered?” he
demanded incredulously.

Gray nodded. “His head was stove
i:

“Give us th’ rest o’ th’ story, part-
ner,” the man commanded. “Matt
Munsey was a friend 0’ mine an’ by
Boy, I'll...”

“Shut up, Pete,” the sheriff inter-
rupted. “Let’s hear this feller out. Go
*head, Mister.”

“Wa-al,” Gray began, addressing
himself to the sheriff. “You know I
was suspicious “bout th’ hull thing
soon’s I heard about it. You couldn’t
see anything wrong b’cause yuh had
th’ bill o’ sale on file here an’ you
were satisfied that th’ mark on it was
Matt’s. Wa-al, soon’s you tel’ me that
Doyle brought it in by ’imself ’stead
o’ bringin’ Matt along with ’im, I knew
fr shore there was somethin’ wrong.”

“By God,” the man named Pete mut-
tered.

“J got even more suspicious ©
things,” Gray continued, “when I over-
heard somethin’ said to Doyle when he
was playin’ poker th’ other night. He
didn’t have ’ny cash. He was playin’
with gold nuggets an’ some feller named
Tom who was playin’ with ’im made
some r’mark about th’ gold bein’ fresh
dug up an’ pointed out that there was
a speck o dirt still clingin’ to one 0’
th’ nuggets.”

TH MAN who had been squatting
against the far wall straightened
up and strode forward.

“That’s right, stranger,” he said
quickly. “I was sittin’ in on that game
an’ I r’member hearin’ Tom Ferris say
just that. What’s more, I even r’mem-
ber seein’ you standin’ there, too, look-
in’ on.”

“Thanks,” Gray said. He turned
again to the sheriff. “How I managed
t get into th’ house ain’t ’specially
important right now. Th’ point is, I

got in, knocked Doyle cold an’ searched
th’ place. I stumbled on somethin’ right
off. In th’ cellar, b’hind a lot of barrels
an’ things, I found a tiny door. Matt
musta hit a gold vein, nuthin’ much.
y’understand. Anyway, Doyle found out
about it an’ th’ way I figger it, when
he found Matt unwillin’ t make any
kind uv a deal, he just up an’ busted
Matt over th’ head an’ that was that.”

“Why, th’ murderin’ dog!” Pete
gritted through his teeth.

“V’know,” Gray went on, “that
Doyle was a pretty smart feller. What’s
more, he nearly got away with th’ kill-
in’, too. He stuffed Matt’s bedy into
Jennie’s coffin figgerin’ that nob’dy
would ever have reason t’ open it an’
look inside uv it. But I had to. Pd
looked all over without findin’ ’ny
trace o’ Matt, an’ that was just about
th’ on’y place left.”

Pete hitched up his gunbelt. “PH be
seein’ you fellers,” he said and started
toward the door.

Gray turned. “If yuh’re goin’ after
Harry Doyle,” he said over his shoul-
der, “yuh’re wastin’ your time. He’s
dead.”

Pete halted in his tracks. He turned
slowly ‘and retraced his steps. “Yuh
shore?”

Gray nodded. “Yep. Th’ sheriff7ll
have t’ ride out there soon enough an’
you c’n go along with ’im an’ see fr
y’self,” he replied. “Y’know, a funny
thing happened out there. F’r some rea-
son I ain’t been able t’ figger out yet,
Doyle strung rope around th’ place.
Anyway, I got diggin’ around an’ kinda
f’rgot about him. He busted outta th’
place an’ tried t make a run f’r it. In
th’ darkness he mighta got away with
it.’

“What pr’vented it?” the sheriff
asked. “Them Colts 0’ your’n?”

Ahab Gray shook his head. “Nope,”
he answered. “Doggoned if Doyle
didn’t trip over that rope o’ his an’ bust
his neck!”

*

Special Feature

LET’S STEAL A COW!

by Lee Thomas

HE YEARLING
~ Hereford steer was
Eo fat and sleek; he
Ae yp vas grazing in the
ERES moonlight when the
A as, pickup truck pulled

oy oe =X in close and stopped.
j * The steer was used

to seeing trucks so
he did not move. A
Sataaiee. rifle cracked. The
steer’s knees buckled and he hit the
ground dead, Three men ran out of the
truck and tossed the carcass into the
box, covering it with a tarp. Then the
wheels of the truck spun gravel, and
soon it was out of sight on the moun-
tain road.

And the rancher had lost another
steer.

So works the modern rustler. Before
morning, the steer’s carcass was in a
walk-in box in a butcher shop in an oil-
boom town. The hide was destroyed in
an acid bath, and the rancher was out
looking for a stray he would never find.

The modern rustler seldom, if ever,
rides a horse. He rides a pickup truck
or a big truck capable of transporting
many stolen cattle. He usually works
in the dark—and he works with speed
and despatch. Sometimes he works

-

72

alone and sometimes he is part of a
rustling ring that reaches oftimes high
into political circles. For beef is now
worth money and a truckload of stolen
steers is sometimes worth as much as
five thousand dollars.

The old days when a rustler stole a
beef via a fast horse and a long loop
and a running-iron are almost a thing
of the past; nowadays the routine is
mechanized and systematized to what
is almost perfection, The swiftness of
the nefarious operation is possible be-
cause of the truck and super highways.
Within a few hours, stolen beef can be
across a state line, in a cooler, or eith-
er sold as steaks. So the cattle detec-
tive has to work speedily or he might
not apprehend the rustlers.

And much cattle stealing is still go-
ing on in the West. As long as cattle
are easy to get, and as long as the price
per pound stays high, the rustler will
take the risk of operating.

The rustler does not dangle at the
end of the rope now if apprehended. He
draws a penitentiary sentence. Many
oldtimers wish that pioneer justice was
still in order—a rope thrown over a
tree, the noose around a rustler’s neck,
and a horse being whipped out from
under him, leaving the man dancing on

thin air. But cattle-thievery—large-

73

scale and small-scale—still continues.

One Colorado rancher came home to
find the head of one of his finest steers
lying in his driveway, the thieves were
so bold. He never did find the beef that
matched the head. In another instance
—this one occurring in Wyoming—the
thieves were tracked down in a very
modern manner. A woman had seen a
car enter a pasture and she had noticed
stickers on the windshield and rear
window. A car bearing such stickers
was found miles away days later by an
inquisitive sheriff. The driver broke
down under questioning, and his win-
ter lodging was assured in the local
calaboose. In addition to sitting that
particular winter out in a cell, he also
had two more winters to hibernate—all
because a rancher’s wife had kept her
eyes open, and because she viewed
trucks with suspicion.

Brand-changing still goes on, but not
in such strength as during the days of
open range. But brand inspectors are
hard to fool, When one brand is super-
imposed over another, the fact can be
verified by skinning the animal and
scraping the inside of the hide, for the
old brand will then be visible—it has
been on the animal a longer time and
therefore has scar tissue.

Many years ago, cattlemen had to
organize to stop rustling, and there-
fore the cattle protective associations
were formed. To be competent today
at his trade, an inspector has to be a
trained detective. His job entails pa-
tient questioning and much riding, both
in a jeep or on horseback. Such an in-
cident occurred a few years ago in
Colorado.

Scme hides were found in an iso-
lated country. The brands had been
cut out, the hides stripped to escape
identification. One rancher had re-
ported having some choice Hereford
steers stolen. The detective found the
hides because of the circling of buz-
zards, and with the hides were the
hoofs and part of the legs. By hard

work and deduction, he matched these
parts with beeves in a butcher’s cooler,
and this held up in court. And another
rustler became a guest of the state in
the penitentiary.

ie the laws passed by State
“legislatures, cattle stealing still
continued in full force until about
1941, when the McCarran Act was
passed in Congress, making it a fed-
eral offense to transport cattle or live-
stock—stolen, livestock, that is—
across state lines. This brought. in the
FBI. It also made things difficult for
ranches that extended from one state
into another. Technically, each cow
that went across the mythical line, al-
though owned by the same owner, was
due for federal inspection.

Montana early went at the business
of eradicating the cow-thief. Early in
its history the Treasure State started
to register cow-brands. Because of open
range and no fences, steers sometimes
wandered for miles and miles—especial-
ly in. the winter, when driven south by
the blizzards. In the early days there
was no baby beef. Steers were trailed-
out or shipped out when three or four
years old. And a steer or cow can wan-
der a long distance inside of three
years. A very, very long distance.

Such an incident occurred to a ranch-
er on the Milk River of northern Mon-
tana. From his section on the Milk to
Miles City down on the Yellowstone
river is about two hundred miles, yet
one time one of his wandering four-
year-old steers was shipped by a
rancher out of Miles.

The rancher ran so many head he
had not missed the steer on roundup.
Then how did he find out that the
steer had been shipped out of Miles
City? Years before, stockmen had
agreed to ship any three or four-year- _
old stuff that was on their range and
did not belong to them, regardless of
the brand. This, of course, held good
only for steers—for what good is an

= DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

old steer? The man who shipped the
steer was in turn paid for it at market.
He then sent a list of the stray brands
he had shipped to the stockman’s as-
sociation at the state capitol in Helena.
The association then published this
list, sending it to local newspapers.

So. the Milk river cowman discov-
ered, to his surprise, that one of his
steers had wandered at least two hun-
dred miles. He then had only to write
the association, prove his claim to the
steer’s brand, and collect the price the
steer had pulled net at market—for
the Miles City cowman had deposited
this sum with the association.

This of course was not rustling; this
was merely helping out a neighbor
stockman whom, in this instance, the
Miles City cowman did not even know.

The stockmen in Texas work the
deal a little differently. They have
brand inspectors located at the big
markets to inspect all cattle who come
out of the Southwest. These inspectors,
trained to their jobs, then pick out
brands that show irregularities, and
such cases are inspected and probed.
One year almost three million cattle
` were shipped to these centers and in-
spectors found about 1,100 brands that
did not conform, Arrests were made
and out of twenty nine, twelve men
were sent to the penitentiary.

Prior to the McCarran Act's pass-
age, trucks took many head of stolen
cattle out of the west for eastern
markets, the trucks moving night and
day. But with the FBI in the saddle,
this form of rustling has in the last
few years taken a serious drop. Federal
pens do not look inviting, even from
the outside.

Much of the stolen beef therefore
goes into local private coolers and to
unscrupulous butchers, despite the
fact that each piece of meat sold over
the counter should bear the U. S.
stamp.

Therefore the younger stuff—the
calves and yearlings—are the most apt

to be stolen. They are lighter and
therefore easier to handle, Ranches in
many cases are still huge, covering
hundreds of acres, and each acre can-
not, of course, be patrolled. Some
beeves are stolen by local ranchers—
yea, even neighbors—who do not want
to butcher their own steers, but want
to save them for market. Such was the
case recently in Montana. Stock detec-
tives traced the butchering of a few
head of fine registered Herefords to a
neighboring rancher.

“Just didn’t crave to eat my own
meat,” he said in his defense, for the
evidence was too strong against him.

Now he is eating the state’s free
meat in Deer Lodge pen.

Some of these rustlers pose as deer
hunters. They meekly ask permission
to hunt on a rancher’s land and they
bow their red caps in submission. Once
on the range and out of sight a steer
might accidentally get shot and fall
into their truck or pickup, And ranch-
es have rear gates in their fences—
gates miles from the ranch-house. This
has also occurred to the sheep-raisers.
It isn’t hard to shoot a young lamb or
ewe, slit its throat and let it bleed, and
then boost it into a truck to be cov-
ered with a tarp. In some cases the
rustlers have even stolen chickens; so
cow-thievery, in this case, had hit a
new low.

Many Western states years ago
passed laws prohibiting the carrying on
horseback, or in a vehicle, what is
termed a “running iron.” A running-
iron is a straight branding iron that
usually has a ring on one end. This
can be heated quickly and can be used
to change brands. The law long ago
emphasized that only “stamp brands”
could be toted. A stamp brand is a le-
gitimate brand that can stamp out only
one brand—for instance, a Lazy A or
some other brand. Woe to the man
caught toting a running-iron on the
range today!

But despite all the laws and pre-

LET’S STEAL A COW! : 75

cautions, cattle-stealing is still a big
operation today. Big Cities are close
to the range and the automobile, beside
changing the pattern of life for law-
abiding people, has definitely made
rustling much easier. Headlights in the
night, the crack of a rifle, the heaving
of a carcass into a truck bed, and then
the headlights storming down the road
...and another beef has been rustled.

Sometimes the man who buys the
beefsteaks—Mr, John Q. Citizen—has
been rather lenient to the cow-thief,
too. A rustler is arrested after much
work by the stockgrowers’ detectives.
He is bound over for trial. John, being
a citizen, gets on the jury. He hears
the evidence pro and con, and he does
some thinking on his own hook; many
times his thoughts run in this manner:

“They claim this innocent looking
fellow has stolen some cattle. He ‘is a
poor man and I am poor, too. He stole
from a cowman and all cowmen are
rich. (This philosophy is prevalent be-
cause beefsteaks are so high at the

Isaac Asimovs
New sociological tale
of an irrational culture

MALE STRIKEBREAKER
e
Philip K. Dick's

~Jatest novelet of tech-
nological mis-appliance

butcher:shop.) He has a wife and chil-
dren he has to support, just as I have
to support my woman and kids. He
stole from the rich and he is poor.”

Therefore in many cases the cow-
thief gets acquitted, is saved by a hung
jury, or, if convicted, gets a light sen-
tence. John goes home to his wife and
kids thinking he has done his duty.
The cowmen sit in the back rows and
groan.

Such an incident has happened in
many a court-room. A few years ago,
after some cow-thiefs had been ar-
rested, word got around that, under the
statutes, they could draw sentences up
to. seventy years in prison.

This made one oldtimer angry. He
had seen a few rustlers dancing on the
end of a rope, and he maintained such
primitive justice was in order in this
case. He fumed and stormed, “Just
seventy years! Hell, they’re gittin’ off
easy—they oughta git life!”

THE UNRECONSTRUCTED M

Plus stories by Robert Silverberg, Irving L. Cox, and others; a survey of re-

don't miss the
January 1957
issue of

cent science books by Randall Garrett; a controversial editorial; Robert A.
Madle’s “Inside Science Fiction”, and other features.

THE ORIGINAL

Juan Murphy had never had a chance, and now that he was
out of prison and back in Canyon City, no one wanted to give
him a break. No one except Marshal Borgan...

AS

À we Wi 4 K E tS ti get B i
It was said that Juan Murphy had pulled off many raids.

GUNSMOKE REDEMPTION

by WILLIAM F. SCHWARTZ

ARSHAL AARON BORGAN,
M Canyon City’s only paid law-

man, leaned back in his creak-
ing swivel chair and eyed the self-ap-
points delegation of citizens who stood
before his spur-marked desk. There
were three of them, he saw; short, pot-
bellied Silk Watson, who controlled
the town’s politics; Ed Anderson, sec-
retary of the Cattlemen’s Association,
a squat, broad-shouldered rancher in
dusty range clothes; and tall, dignified,
gray-haired Hugh Lambert, president
of the Canyon City First National
Bank,

“Im sorry,’ Borgan said, quietly.

76

There was apology in his words, but
not in his tone. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, *
but it can’t be done.”

“Can’t be done!” Silk Watson

echoed. His voice was a breathless
wheeze with a snarl of disbelief behind
it. “What d’yuh mean—it can’t be
done? Juan Murphy’s an outlaw, I
tell yuh. Yuh gotta order him outta
town!”
. Borgan shook his head. “I can’t.
Murphy’s wanted nowhere as far as I
can discover; I just can’t order him
out of town for no reason at all.”

“But he’s a jailbird!” Silk insisted,
“That gives yuh the right to—”

77.

“That gives me no right at all!”
Borgan cut in, his voice brittle. “Sure!
Juan Murphy’s served time in jail, but
that was years ago. He served his sen-
tence. He has every right to come back
here to live; don’t forget, he was born
in Canyon City.”

“And he was sent to jail from Can-
yon City. Don’t forget that, neither!”
Silk reminded. Then he looked to An-
derson for help. “And fer cattle-rustlin’,
too.”

“That’s right!” Anderson agreed
with a high-pitched nasal twang.
“That’s right—fer cattle-rustlin’. Don’t
forget, Marshal, that we don’t cotton
to cattle-rustlers around these parts.
Murphy was lucky to escape last time
without being hanged; and we heard a
lot about him since.”

“What, for instance?”

“You heard, as well as us, Marshal,”
Anderson said, “that Juan Murphy’s
supposed to be a member of the Dal-
ford gang. And you know who they
are— a bunch of cattle-stealin’, bank-
robbin bandits. Everybody says Mur-
phy rode with that gang for years.”

Borgan shook his head again. “It’s
never been proved that Juan Murphy
rode with the Dalford mob. All you’re
goin’ on, Anderson, is rumors.”

“But there’s somethin’ fishy about
Murphy.” That was Silk Watson jibing
in again. “Somethin’ rotten and fishy.
He left Ganyon City ten years ago to
serve a sentence for cattle-rustlin’.
Then, he was nuthin’ but a penniless
orphan. We all know his sentence was
five years; he served his sentence and
we didn’t see him no more. We thought
we was rid of him. Now, he turns up
in fancy clothes with plenty of money
in his pockets. Where did he get all this
money, Marshal, if he didn’t get it from
ridin’ with some outlaw mob?”

“Murphy says he got the money
from investments and gamblin’—most-
ly from gamblin’,’ Borgan informed
them. “And there ain’t no law—yet—
in this Territory against gamblin’.”

eC FNVESTMEN TS!” That was Hugh

Lambert, the bank president, who
finally spoke. “Pd like to know what
sort of investments they were. Marshal,
surely you can understand my position
in this. The Dalford gang is composed
of notorious bank robbers, I can’t af-
ford to have a man like Juan Murphy
loose in this community. He’s a menace
to my bank. He’s been in my bank sev-
eral times since he’s been here, getting
large bills changed into smaller denom-
inations. But, if we can go by his rep-
utation he was probably—well—to re-
sort to the vernacular, ‘casing’ my bank
for a future hold-up. He rented a room
at the Cowman’s Rest Hotel; and you
know as well as I that the Cowman’s
Rest is just across Main Street from
the First National Bank. I often see
him sitting at the window of the bar-
room of the Cowman’s Rest; he keeps
his eyes glued to my bank. He knows
when the bank opens and he knows
when it closes. He’s probably figuring
the best time of the day to stage a hold-
up.”

“But,” Borgan insisted, “he’s re-
layed no information to anybody—not
since he’s been here, at least. He hasn’t
left town once since he got here about
two weeks ago; and he hasn’t sent any
telegrams, either; I got Clooney, down
at the telegraph office, posted to give
me the word any time Murphy tries to
send a telegram. And that isn’t all:
every piece of mail that leaves-Canyon
City got to go through Nick Howard’s
combination grocery store and post of-
fice. I got Nick on the watch, too. Only
this mornin’, Nick told me that Murphy
hasn’t sent out a letter since he got
here.”

“But that’s neither here nor there!”
Silk Watson cut in. “The law-abidin’
citizens of Canyon City have decided
that the community would be a better
place to live in if Juan Murphy’s miles
and miles away from here. Murphy’s
gotta go; that’s all there is to it—Mur-
phy’s gotta go! And it’s your duty,
Marshal, to tell him to get out.”

78 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

BORGAN MADE no comment for a
moment. He shoved his sweat-
stained Stetson back from his forehead
and showed thinning grey hair, His
wrinkled, weather-beaten face was
calm, but a hint of fire started to show
in his washed-out gray-blue eyes, which
were the color of faded denim. “I hate
for you gentlemen,” he began in a
strained voice, “to come here and tell
me what my duty is. I’ve been marshal
here nigh on to twenty years.

“I hope it don’t sound like braggin’

when I say this, but Canyon City was a
pretty rugged frontier town when I was
hired. It wasn’t safe to walk down Main
Street—especially on Saturday nights—
unless you were wearin’ a firearm of
some sort. And there were a lot of un-
solved murders, too. But things are
changed more than a mite, now, gentle-
men. There hasn’t been a shootin’ in
Canyon City for a good many years.
And to add to my arguement, gentle-
men, there ain’t one of you packin’ a
gun right now; no doubt, you don’t
think it’s necessary. That shows I was
successful, partly at least, in riddin’
this town of crime and lawlessness. I
guess it ain’t necessary for you gentle-
men to inform me what my duty is.”

“But Juan Murphy’s packin’ a gun!”
Watson broke in. “A big, pearl-handled
45 that musta cost a young fortune.
He’s carryin’ a gun.”

“But there ain’t no law, in this com-
munity,” Borgan reminded, “against
anybody wearin’ a gun. If he wants to,
that’s his business; I can’t interfere
with that, not accordin’ to law.”

“There should be a law,” Ed Ander-
son insisted. “There should be a law
against convicted rustlers carryin’
guns, even though they say they make
their livin’ now by gamblin’. I’m here
to represent the cattle interests, Mar-
shal; there ain’t no need for me to
elaborate on that. We don’t like Juan
Murphy’s presence here in town; and
were liable to do somethin’ about it,
Marshal, if you don’t.”

Inside, Borgan felt anger fester; he

fought to control it. “I wouldn’t ad-
vise that, Anderson,” he said, quietly.
“T won’t stand for no trouble. You
know that.”

“And I don’t want no trouble,
either,” Anderson added. “But I can’t
guarantee what might happen if Juan
Murphy stays here much longer. The
ranchers are startin’ to get riled up.
They’re liable to act, with or without
your blessin’. Juan Murphy might get
rode outta town on a rail— if he’s
lucky, that is. On the other hand,
the cattlemen might remember he’s a
rustler and decide to use a rope instead
of a rail. A rope’s the only real way
to put a stop to a rustler.”

Borgan stood up. He was a tall,
lean man over six feet tall, even
though his shoulders were slightly bent
and his long legs were slightly bowed
from many hours spent in a saddle.

“You make it hard for me gentle-
men.” His protest—and his voice—
sounded mild enough, even though he
was starting to seethe inwardly. “You
make it hard for me all around. I
already had a talk or two with Mur-
phy. I know how he feels; he knows
he’s not wanted around here; but he
won’t leave—not unless he’s forced.
And I have no right to force him. This
is his home town; like I said, he was
born right here in Canyon City. I re-
member him when I came here. He
was already half an orphan then. His
father was killed in a drunken brawl
on Main Street before I was hired
here. I never knew him, but I under-
stand he was Irish.

“Juan’s mother was Mexican. I re-
member her as a half-starved woman
who lived in a shanty on the outskirts
of town. The place was a mess, but it
was clean inside. She tried to make a
livin’ for Juan and herself by washin’
and ironin’ and sewin’. She didn’t make
much of a livin’ because the women
around these parts, back then, did
their own housework and such. I know
there was times when her and Juan
didn’t have enough to eat.

GUNSMOKE REDEMPTION 79

66 E BOY was always in trouble.

I remember once when I was
sent out to arrest Juan because he
swiped a chicken from Cal Grogan’s
hen house. When I got to Juan’s moth-
er’s place, the chicken was still alive,
because Juan’s mother was too honest
to kill and eat a stolen chicken, even
though I know damn well she was hun-
gry. Juan cried and pleaded with me
to let him keep the chicken. It was
near Christmas-time and he said he
didn’t taste chicken on Christmas
since his father died.

“Juan was only a shaver when his
mother passed away. I kin remember
him, half-clothed and half-starved,
wanderin’ around -the streets, tryin’
to beg, borrow and—I’m sorry it was
that way—stealin’ for a livin’. He tried
to be honest. He shined boots; he
washed dishes at the Elite Cafe; he
begged money from drunken cowpokes
on Saturaday nights.”

“And he wasn’t above rollin’ drunken
cowpokes on Saturday night, either.”
That was Silk Watson who interrupted
ence more. “I remember how he was
caught red-handed with a ten dollar
bill that he swiped outta the pocket of
a drunken cowpoke he found stupified
from the red eye in the alley behind the

Good Chance Saloon. He was always

a trouble-maker. I remember—”

“Let me finish, Silk, please!” Bor-
gan cut in. “I know all that; I remem-
ber it well. After all, I had more deal-
ings with Juan Murphy than you did.
After all, I was the one who took him
off to prison that time after he killed
a stray yearlin’ out on the Three Forks
River.”

“And I remember, too.” Ed Ander-
son cut in. “That yearlin’ was a stray,
but it was X Bar X property; Juan
Murphy cut it up into steaks.”

“Because he was hungry,’ Borgan
added. “Juan was only sixteen at the
time.”

“But old enough to know better!”
Watson snapped. ..

“He was,” Borgan admitted. “Juan

damn near got a rope that time, too.
I remember that a half dozen X Bar
X men had him tied up under a tree,
with a rope around his neck. I was
lucky to get there in time.” ..

“Too bad you did!” Silk Watson
said heatedly.

Borgan sighed. “I was the Law here
then, and I’m the Law here now. And
TIl be the Law until I retire or until
I’m replaced by somebody less, acordin’
to due process of the Law. But let me
finish.

“It was me that insisted on a trial
for Juan Murphy,” Borgan went on.
“It was me that took him off to
prison; I remember how he cried when
they put him in a cell and locked the
doors.

cc ALL THE way back from the

prison, after I left Juan there,
I kept thinkin’ of how hard it was
goin’ to be on a kid of-sixteen bein’ -
locked up for five long years in prison
especially a kid like Juan who was
used to bein’ as free as—well—as free
as a bird, livin’. out in the open most
of the time, sleepin’ out at nights on
the prairie when the weather was fit
for it.

“That made me think, gentlemen.
That made me think that maybe we
should have given him a better chance
in life. After all, he was partly our
responsibility; he was born here. May-
be we should have taken better care
of him while he was young. Maybe
we should have seen he had better
food, better clothes, better—”

“Oh, skip that, Marshal!” Watson
cut in again. “That ain’t the issue that’s
at stake now. Juan Murphy’s got plenty
of. money now; and maybe only him
and the Dalford gang knows where he
got it.”

Borgan sighed, shrugged his shoul-
ders. “I guess it’s no use. I was just
tryin’ to say we all remember Juan
when he was an irresponsible kid—a
kid that was gettin’ under our feet and
into our hair all the time. I wanted to

80 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

say he’s changed now. He’s paid for
his crime; and he did it on his own
hook, without any help from any of us.
But you gentlemen remember him
when he was a—”

“A troublemaker!” Anderson fin-
ished the sentence. “Listen, Marshal,
we know, for certain, that he killed one
stray calf and ate part of it. And there
could have been other strays he killed
and ate, too, without nobody else
findin’ out about it. Sure, he was only
a kid at the time. Sixteen, you say;
well, I was workin’ on my Dad’s ranch
—and workin’ damn hard, too—when
I was a lot less than sixteen. Sure, he
might have been hungry. But why
raise cattle—and what profit would
there be in it, if every hungry kid killed
a yearlin’ or two every time he felt like
it? You got a poor argument, Mar-
shal?”

“And that’s not all!” This was from
Lambert. “It’s not only Juan Murphy’s
past we’re concerned with here, Mar-
shal; there’s also his potential to con-
sider. He’s rumored to be a bank rob-
ber. Suppose he is? He’s a menace to
my bank, my means of livlihood,
my—”

“All right! All right!” Borgan threw
up his hands. “TIl talk to Murphy
again; I'll try to convince him to leave
Canyon City. I’m sorry to say so, gen-
tlemen, but I guess I’m licked. I reck-
on,” he added with a‘wry smile, “that
it’s the will of the people.” Slowly, he
rose to his full height; then he started
for the door with a long, crane-like
stride. “I’ll talk to Juan now,” he told
them. “But—” he added, over his shoul-

der, as he left the room, “but it’s still”

up to him. If he goes peacefully, well
and good; but I won’t force him.”

ARSHAL AARON BORGAN
found Juan Murphy sitting at a
table in the barroom of the Cowmen’s
Rest Hotel. Juan, a well-groomed
figure in a black suit and white shirt
with a black string tie, was playing soli-

taire and had a bottle of whiskey and
a glass at his elbow.

“Care for a drink, Marshal?” Juan
offered when Borgan approached the
table.

Borgan. shook his head. “No,
thanks.” He reached for one of the
wooden chairs around the table and sat
astraddle with his long arms folded
across the chair’s back. “This is busi-
ness, Juan; not social.”

Juan showed even white teeth in a
nonconunittal smile. His eyes, starkly
blue, in an’ almost handsome sw: thy
face, seemed faintly amused. “I guess
I know what kind of business, Mar-
shal.”

“I reckon yuh do.”

“Why won’t they let me alone, Mar-
shal?” Juan asked. “Ive harmed no-
body since I’m here; I’ve tried to live
up to the Law. Why don’t they just let
me alone?”

“Tt goes a long way back, Juan.”

Juan frowned. “That’s right, Mar-
shal; a long way back. I killed a stray
because I was hungry, and they can’t
forget it.”

“That’s right.”

“But I'd pay for that stray, Marshal.
Id pay twice its present market value,
but I guess that wouldn’t satisfy them,
either.”

“I reckon not.”

“Then what would you suggest I do,
Marshal?”

“Leave town.”

Juan Murphy smiled, but there was
no mirth in it; his blue eyes were grim.
“I don’t intend to do that, Marshal.
Not yet, anyway.” Then he asked,
“Just what charges are there against
me, Marshal? How could you run me
out of town?”

“Im not runnin’ you out,” Borgan
told him; “I ain’t got no right. But
maybe it would be for the best.”

“But why, Marshal?”

Borgan sighed. “I won’t lie to you,
pe but it looks like you’re hated

ere. I just had a delegation of citizens
in my office. They insist I run yuh

GUNSMOKE REDEMPTION

out of town. I told them Id talk to
yuh, but the decision’s up to you.”
“Thanks, Marshal, but I’m staying.
I know it puts you in a spot, and I
owe you a lot. You saved my life the
time those cuwpokes were all set on
hanging me. And I still remember the
time I stole that chicken. I remember
how you took that chicken away from
me and took it back to the owner. But,
I remember too, how you showed up

with another chicken an hour later— <

so my mother and I could have a chick-
en dinner at Christmas. I’ll never forget
that, Marshal, as long as I live.”

Borgan made no comment. Some men
might, he thought to himself, ask Juan
Murphy to leave town as a favor to
them if they were in his present pre-
dicament. But as marshal of Canyon
City he was never in the habit of asking
favors; it went against his grain.

Finally, Borgan said, “It’s up to
you, Juan. But, I warn you, there
might be trouble.”

UAN SMILED again. “Trouble,
Marshal? I’m used to trouble. Trou-
ble’s been riding on my shoulder ever
since I was a kid. And I’m not helpless
now, the way I used to be. I’m wearing

81

a gun, Marshal; and let me assure you,
I know how to use it.”

“But I want no gunplay here,” Bor-
gan told him.

“And I won’t start any trouble,”
Juan hastened to assure him. “PI
keep my sixgun in leather as long as
nobody pushes me.”

Borgan sighed again. “But that
might happen—just that; somebody
might push you.”

“And whose side will you be on then,
Marshal? Theirs or mine?”

Borgan shrugged his shoulders. “PH
wait. I’ll see. Then TH decide.” Then
he added, “I’ll see who starts it—
first; before I take any action.”

“Thanks, Marshal; I know you'll
be fair. I didn’t come here to start
trouble. But, if it comes for me, I'll
be ready for it. Pve been out of prison
for five years now; there’ll never be
cause again to send me back.

“You know, Marshal,” Juan went on.
“A lots happened to me since I got
out of jail. I didn’t waste my time. In
prison, I had time to think it over. I
learned a lot—when I was in prison and
since. Funny thing, Marshal, I hardly

knew how to read or write when I was
[Turn Page]

2 Gripping Stories of Midnight Murder
GOOD BYE,
TWO-TIME GAL!

CRACK

by Daoma Winston
e

THE BLACK WIDOW
by Al McGarry

You'll find these, and many other stories in the February

DETECTIVE and
MYSTERY STORIES

82 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

sent to the pen. But, lucky for me, I
met a man inside who taught me a lot.

“He was a former school teacher who
was serving time for stealing some
school board funds. He pitied me, I
guess, but he acted like a private tutor
to me whenever he had the time. He
had a family back East who sent him
books and paper and pencil and pen
and ink. He taught me a lot. How to
read, how to write, how to talk and act
properly in company. Once, Marshal,
I used to eat with my fingers; but, now,
[ll wager, I can use a knife and fork
as well as any high-toned citizen in
Canyon City.

“T have money, Marshal, more than
I ever dreamed I’d have. How I got it

is my business. But a lot of it, I'll tell
you, I won at cards. I came back to
Canyon City for a couple of reasons,
and not all good reasons, I guess. One
reason was to show the people here
that the half-starved urchin whom they

i
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kicked around grew up to be as rich and
cultured as any of them. They used to
spit at me; now I can spit at them, a
good deal of them. Of course, the word
‘spit’ I use in a figurative sense.”

Juan smiled faintly. Then went on:
“No, Marshal, I’m not leaving Canyon
City; not yet. And you needn’t worry
about protecting me.” He patted the
ornate pearl-handled .45 he wore at
his right hip. “I have my own protec-
tion—right here.”

Borgan eyed the sixshooter, bleakly.
“Yeah,” he began, “that gun. Your
gun, Juan, was under discussion at our
little confab, too. They was wonderin’
why you’re wearin’ it. You see, nobody
but me wears a gun around Canyon
City any more; not for the past few
years. And with me, the gun’s as much
as a badge of my office as the star on
my vest. They can’t figure out why

[Turn to Page 84]

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JANUARY 2-31

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

you’re packin’ a gun when nobody else
does but me.”

UAN SMILED again. “For my pro-

tection, I said, Marshal. I have
ears, too; I’ve been hearing some ru-
mors. I understand that some cattle-
men have been saying they should have
hanged me years ago. That’s one reason
I’ve been wearing this forty-five; I’m
not hankering to have seme hemp
around my throat. I intend to wear
this gun as long as I’m in town, Mar-
shal.”

Borgan sighed again; then stood up.
“So you’re stayin’ then? Your mind’s
made up?”

Juan nodded. “It is, Marshal; it is
made up.”

“One other thing,” Borgan added,
“people been sayin’ you’re part of the
Dalford gang. Ed Anderson, the presi-
dent of the First National Bank across
the street, says that’s why you’re here.
He says you’re a look-out for the gang,
and that’s why you rented a room here
at the Cowmen’s Rest where you can
watch the bank. That’s why, he says,
you spend hours lookin’ across the
street, watchin’ the bank. You been
watchin’ the bank, Juan? I warn yuh, I
want a straight answer.”

Juan Murphy hesitated a moment
before he replied. His brow was wrin-
kled in thought, Borgan saw; and, for
a moment or two, his blue eyes seemed
evasive. Finally, he nodded. “I won’t
lie to you, Marshal; I kave been
watching the bank. Why not? It’s a
busy place. I see familiar people coming
and going from it. People I’ve known
only a short while. Besides, how can I
avoid looking at the bank when I’m at
this window? But—” he laughed; and,
parently, had appeased them—for the
time being. But Borgan wondered what
course he would take if nothing new
developed. He could hardly chase Juan
Borgan noted, the laugh was toneless
and entirely without mirth. “But, I as-
sure you, I’m not planning to rob the

[Turn to Page 86]

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86

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

bank; and I’m not a member of the
Dalford gang!”

Borgan thought it over a moment;
then he, too, nodded. “Okay, Juan,
I'll take your word on it.” Then he
waved goedbye and stalked away from
the table. But, inside, he was wonder-
ing whether or not he could trust Juan
Murphy.

Hugh Lambert, it seemed, had ciu.use
to worry about Juan’s actions in keep-
ing an apparent watch on the First Nae

size |tional; and Borgan remembered that he,

himself, had heard rumors that Murphy
had been seen in towns where the Dal-
ford gang had robbed banks. There
was more to this than he could figure
at the moment, Borgan told himself.
Maybe he better keep his eyes—and
brain—open where Juan Murphy was
concerned. As he walked from the bar-
room into sunlit Main Street, Marshal
Aaron Borgan had a premonition of
impending trouble that would involve
Murphy; and the citizens’ committee.

But, at the moment, Borgan remind-
ed himself, he could do nothing but
wait for developments. Almost mechani-
cally, he fingered the heavy walnut-
handled .45 he wore on his right thigh.
That sixshooter, he was aware, was the
only protection that town really had
against the Dalford gang if they rode
into Canyon City to rob the First Nat-
ional; the only protection against Mur-
phy, too, if it turned out he was a mem-

ber of the gang.
A FEW HOURS later, Marshal
Aaron Borgan was sweeping out
his office. He had stalled off the citi-
zens’ committee’s demand for the ex-
pulsion of Juan Murphy from Canyon
City by asking for more time. “PI
keep an eye on Juan for a day or two,”
he had promised Silk Watson and the
others. “If he acts suspicious, I’ll give
him his walkin’ papers.” That, ap-
parently, had appeased them—for the
time being. But Borgan wondered what
course he would take if nothing new
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88 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

developed. He could hardly chase Juan
out of town for merely watching the
business at the First National.

Borgan was so busy with his sweep-
ing that he failed to notice the two men
who rode down Main Street past his
office; and he had no way ef knowing
that two others rode into Canyon City
from the opposite direction. If he had
seen them, he would have acted instant-
ly—because all four men wore long
white linen dusters, the garb of the Dal-
ford gang.

But the word reached him quickly
enough. Ten-year-old Christy Dwyer
came running, breathlessly, into the
Marshal’s office. Christy was office
boy at the First National.

“Mister Lambert sent me!” Christy
explained. “There’s some strange men

down by the bank. It looks like they’re
goin’ to rob the bank. Mister Lambert
says for you to come down—tight
away.”

“Thanks, Christy,” Borgan said.

Borgan had a clear view of the First
National Bank as he hurried down
Main Street. Even now, he saw, the
robbery had started. Two men in
dusters, with gunnysacks in their hands,
were dashing across the street into the
bank. Two other men, both dressed the
same way, loitered at a hitching rack
near the Cowmen’s Rest Hotel.

Maybe this was suicide, Borgan
told himself, pitting-his one gun against
four bandits; but there was no time to
consider that. He was a paid lawman,
and his duty lay clear before him. He

[Turn to Page 90]

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The Reluctant Subject

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90 -

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

ducked into a side street, ran down a
back alley; he had his .45 in his hand
now.

Borgan came out on Main Street
again about twenty yards from the
First National. He wasted no time; he
sent a slug whistling at the two men at
the hitching rack the moment he e-
merged from the side street. He saw
the hat of one of the men go sailing
from his head. He fired again. This
time, he missed completely, and ducked
behind a convenient horse-trough for
cover.

Then the bandits began to return
his gunfire. One was down on his knee
in the street, his gun spitting lead; the
other lay sprawled in the dust of Main
Street. At first, Borgan thought the
latter had been hit. But he saw almost
immediately that he was wrong; the
second bandit was aiming his shots,
carefully and deliberately, at the horse
trough. Borgan felt some slivers of
wood bite into his face as lead from
the second outlaw thudded into the
boards of the trough.

Borgan kept concealed behind the
trough, pinned down by the gunfire of
the outlaws. Main Street, he noted
dully, was completely deserted now,
except for the two bandits. The towns-
people had fled out of sight at the first
sound of guns.

So, Borgan told himself, he was left
alone to face the bandits. There was
nothing he could do now, he realized,
but shoot it out with them. But it °
would be at least four guns against one.
The outcome, for the moment, looked
certain.

ORGAN POKED his arm and his

A5 out from behind a corner of the
horse trough for another shot at the
bandits. He was determined to get at
least one of them before they gunned
him down. But, suddenly, a red hot
iron seemed to burn his arm; just above
the elbow. He realized immediately that
he was hit; his right arm, too. He could

[Turn to Page 92]

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92

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

shoot with his left hand, but not as well
as with his right—and the 45 had
dropped from his hand when he was
wounded. To retrieve it, he would have
to leave the shelter of the horse trough.

Borgan grabbed his bleeding arm and
mouthed bitter blasphemy. The only
course open to him, it seemed like, was
to crawl away; down the alley; and
hide.

But then, from out of the side street.
came a man with a gun in his hand.
Juan Murphy! Borgan breathed fresh
curses; so Juan was a member of the
outlaw gang after all. And he, himself,
was trapped. Murphy was behind him,
the other bandits in front; he was
trapped!

Juan Murphy fired. Aaron Borgan
saw the flame spit from his gun and
waited, almost patiently, for the shock
that would come when the slug from
the .45 ripped into his body.

But the Marshal heard the buzz of
the slug, like an angry bee, as it
whizzed over his head. Juan had missed
with his first shot, Borgan told him-
self. But there would be others; and
Juan could hardly miss again at such
a close range.

Murphy fired again. But this time
Borgan realized, that Juan’s gunfire
was not directed at him. Juan was
shooting at the bandits; and as Borgan
watched, amazed, the bandit who had
been on one knee, crumpled and rolled
over in the street.

The bandit who had been sprawled
on the street got to his feet, tried to
run away. But another bullet from.
Juan’s .45 sent him spinning; and he,
too, collapsed into the dust of Main
Street.

In a couple of seconds, Murphy was
beside Aaron Borgan behind the horse
trough.

“Yowre hit!” Juan said when he
saw the Marshal’s bleeding arm. ‘‘Sor-
ry I didn’t get here sooner, but I was
down at the general store to buy some
tobacco. Where’s the rest of the gang?”

[Turn to Page 94]

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94

Newark, New iad

DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

“There’s two of ther in the bank,”
Borgan told him.

“Good! They’re sitting ducks.”

A tall man with a beard and a mus-
tache came running out of the bank.
He wore a linen duster and carried a
gunnysack in his left hand; his right
hand held a .45,

“That’s -Hank Dalford himself!”
Juan breathed to Borgan; then he was
on his feet, throwing lead across the
street from his belching .45.

ANK DALFORD halted in mid-
stride; he seemed to run into a

1 brick wall. Then, slowly, he slithered
down into the dusty street. His gun and
the gunnysack dropped from his life-
less fingers.

Then the last bandit emerged from
the bank; but his hands were bare; he
held them skyward in surrender.

“Let’s get him before he changes his
mind,” Juan ordered Borgan; they
started across the street.

Murphy was tying the only surviving
bandit’s hands behind his back with the
bandit’s own kerchief when people be-
gan to appear out of the buildings along
Main Street. They were bug-eyed,
Borgan saw, with excitement.

“I guess I can tell you now,” Juan
said to Borgan, “where I got some of
my money. I’m a professional bandit
hunter. Dalford and his gang had a
price on their heads. I learned, through

[Turn to Page 96]

THROW YOUR VOICE

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i To. Amuse’ and Amaze Your Friends: : p

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Your chance to have eyes in
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ELECTRIC

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Rush me the items listed belaw, tf | am not satisfied | may

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pu s NAME OF ITEM HOW MANY TOTAL PRICE

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Troubled with GETTING DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN
UP NIGHTS, Pains im BACK,

':¥.\4# ee HIPS, LEGS, Tiredness the grapevine, that they intended to
“40 J Loss of Physical Vigor hold up the bank here. That’s why I
7 yout YOU, have these symptoms came here—to get them and get the re-
en your troubles ma; e ace © n - .
Jar Dysfunction ... reinan pled Oaa. ward; I’ve been after Dalford a long
Medicines that give temporary relief will not time ”
Gigtdular Upstauction alte lend te bee “y » ZB
ani y: often lea O pre-
mature old age and sometimes ineursbie te á guess, organ commented,
malignancy. that’s why we heard you were seen in
The past few years men from over 3,000
communities have been successfully treated a couple of towns where Dalford and
here at the Excelsior Institute. They have hi k.”
srana soothing an one How zer a A aS pang OVE . S
e Excelsior Institute, devo ioh
treatment of diseases peculiar to older men That’s right, Juan started to say
y ng me sS as a mo $
FREE BOOK that tells how Glandular Dys- re, but he couldn t; the crowd was
function may be corrected by proven NON- clustered around them.
SURGICAL treatments. This book may } A 8
prove of utmost importance in your life. First to speak, as usual, was Silk
rite today. ere is no © on.
Excelsior Institute, Dept..9334 » Excelsior Springs, Mo. | Watson. “Marshal, I want to congrat-

[Turn to Page 98]

STATEMENT REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF AU-
GUST 24, 1912, AS AMENDED BY THE ACTS
OF MARCH 3, 1933, AND JULY 2, 1946 (Title
39, United States Code, Section 233) SHOW-
ING THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT,

EARN: ELECTRICITY: TELEVISION

ELECTRONICS RADIO's: COLOR TV

2 Top Onpertunity Fields. Vets and nen Vote è
| ‘Train on ia Bine equipment at Coyne—not home study, AND CIRCULATION OF
Larger
mt Berrios to patent Eispeed jute cleo nk ed ae Action Page a Tenunan bi-monthly at
et e Employment help for st ti pi M A (e7 ber 1, 1956.
Di Ea asta p oes pie A datala Bend card or Holyoke, ass. for Octol 5

Notation No slesan will oal, Coyne Electrical School 1. The names and addresses of the publisher,
editor, managing editor, and business managers
are: Publisher, Louis H., Silberkleit, 241 Church
Bt., New York 13, N. Y. Editor, Robert W.
Lowndes, 241 Church St., New York 13, N. Y.

S$ oO N G $ = $ $ $ $ $ $ Managing editor, Robert W. Lowndee, 241 Church
. | 8t., New York 13, N. Y. Business manager, Maurice

Share $29 million yearly. Songs Composed, PUB-

—500 So. Paulina St. —Dept. 17-45H—Chicago 12, Hl.

Coyne, 241 Church St., New York 13, N. Y

LISHED, promoted. Appraisal, Info FREE. Send to ret n a e Mataa ‘aneeeie tomes

NORDYKE PUBLISHING CO. diately thereunder the names and addresses of

stockholders owning or holding 1 percent or more
6000 SUNSET BLVD., Hollywood 28 DA, Cal. of total amount of stock. If not owned by a cor-
Y poration, the names and addresses of the individual
owners must be given. If owned by a partnership
or other unincorporated firm, its name and addrese,
as well as that of each individual member, must
be given.) Columbia Publications, Inc., 241 Church
St., New York 13, N. Y. Louis H. Silberkleit, 241
Church Street, New York 13, N. Y. Maurice Coyne,
241 Church Street, New York 13, N. Y. Michael I.
Silberkleit, 241 Church St., New York 13, N. Y.

3. The known bondholders, mortgagees, and other
security holders owning or holding 1 percent or
more of total amount of bonds, mertgages, or other
securities are: (If there are none, so stata.) None.

4. Paragraphs 2 and 3 include, in cases where the
stockholder or security holder appears upon the
books of the company as trustee or in any othet
fiduciary relation, the name of the person or eor-
poration for whom such trustee is acting; also the
statements in the two paragraphs show the affiant’s
| full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances
and conditions under which stockholders and se-
curity hoiders who do not appear upon the books
ef the company as trustees, hold stock and secur-

NO: FITTING REQUIRED

i ADJUSTABLE: FOR YOUR COMFORT:

AT LAST A NEW FORM-FITTING WASH- itles i capacity other than that of a bona fide

ABLE BRACER WITH ADJUSTABLE LEG- Nee eo St 7 :

STRAPS THAT’S GUARANTEED TO BE THB

pig eg ORTABLE YoU EVER WORE! 5. The average number of copies of each issue of

e a Pp, NO- LACES NO STEEL, Amazing this publication sold or distributed, throvgh the

pata’ d A of flat groin „pad for support with mails or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the

One BEST TOO AS AFTER 12 months preceding the date shown above was:
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H DOUBLE PAID. Mear E T SIDN tan: semiweekly, and triweekly newspepers only.)

es gO Eyri CETT

SERIOUS DELAY @ @ SOLD ON MONEY ens ee Dafo me ee

BACK GUARA

WRIGHT (My commission expires March 30, 1958.)

Dept, 154, BRACER CO. MAURICE COYNE
pt. 154, 318 Market Si, Newark, New Jersey Notary Public State of New York

No. 03-5844500
Qualified in Bronx Co.
Cert, Filed im New York County

Commission Expires Merch 30, 2958

96

Every!

A motor vehicle is a machine of many parts, each part designed
wnd constructed for its own special function, z

All good mechanics, like good doctors, should know the working
Wheory and operation of each part and understand what causes

trouble and how to remedy it. g ‘
GUIDE, SOLVE

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INFORMATION! IN'A HANDY. FORM .

73 INTERESTING CHAPTERS—Read this partial list of subjects x
on which practici information is fully given for quick reference .
mnder the headings as shown below. Ready Reference Index. 7

AN Parts of an Automobilo—Automotive Physica=T he Gas Engine
Gas Engine Principles—Multi-Cylinder Engines—Horse Power—Aue
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(fRings—Connecting Rods—Crank Shatts—Vaives—Valve Gear—Cams
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f Tir bricants and Lue
brication—Automotive Elece
9 tricity—Ignition Systems—
Magneto Ignition—Spark
Plugs—ignition Colls—Dis-
tributors—Automatic Spark
Control—Ignition Timing—=
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Testing—Diesel Engines and
Trouble Shooting:

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1

OCCUPA ON rere ret
D.A.

98 DOUBLE ACTION WESTERN

ulate you,” Silk began. “you sure got
this gang; you sure—”

“Stow it!” Borgan cut in. “Did you
see the gun battle, Silk?”

Watson cleared his throat before he
spoke again. “Well, not exactly, Mar-
shal, you see, I was—”

“Ffidin’ out somewheres,’ Borgan
finished. for him. “Well, you’re all
wrong, Silk; I had practically nuthin’
to. do with this. Juan did it all. He
gunned down them three dead bandits
while I was lyin’ helpless and wounded
over there behind that horse trough.”

“But J saw it.” That was from Ed
Anderson, who was shoving his way
through the crowd. “It looks like we
had you wrong, Murphy. We figured
that because you was watchin’ the bank
all the time from across the street at
the Cowmen’s Rest that you was a
lookout for them.”

“Not a lookout,” Juan explained,
“but I was looking for them. That’s
why I rented that room at the Cow-

- man’s Rest. I heard they were coming
here. I waited to collect the reward
for them.”

”?

By that time, Hugh Lambert was out
of the bank and coming ‘through the
crowd. “They had me backed up
against a wall in the bank,” Lambert
informed Juan, “but I could see out the
window, I—I—” he hesitated. “I guess
I owe you an apology, Juan. I° was
wrong about you. I guess we were all
wrong. But—” Then he held out his
hand, “Welcome to Canyon City, Juan.
Let me congratulate you, you’re an as-
set to the community.”

There was more hand-shaking. Ed
Anderson told Juan, “‘I guess the cattle-
men will forget all about that stray
now, Juan. You paid off the debt in
lead.”

Borgan said nothing; he started to
herd the only live prisoner off to the
lockup, But he was happy, too. It
looked as if Juan Murphy, the prodigal
son of Canyon City, would be able to
stay at home now and walk the streets
with his head held high. And Marshal
Aaron Borgan was glad for that.

*

ANSWER

To The IF Story

““Texana’’

An,

on arriva] plus a few cents for our C. O. D.

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When the demand -for the
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they had been kept, then
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Mary M. Benson Becomes
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Harry G. Barnes, Former
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bE

"Lewis Training gave me a new lease on
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. ment Department, | secured a position of

Assistant Steward in a fine hotel. My work
is enjoyable, financially rewarding, and |
feel sure of bigger and better things to
come."

STEP INTO A WELL-PAID HOTEL POSITION

Well-paid, important positions,
ever-increasing opportunities
and a sound, substantial future’
await trained men and women
in essential hotels, clubs, motels,
institutions, schools and apart-
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uates “making good” as Mana-
gers, Assistant Managers, Stew-
ards, Hostesses, Executive
Housekeepers, and in 55 other
types of well-paid positions.

Mail Coupon For Free Book

Record-breaking travel means
greater opportunities than ever.
Previous experience proved un-
necessary in this business
where you are not dropped be-
cause you are over 40. Lewis
Training qualifies you at home
in leisure time or through resi-
dent classes in Washington. ©

ge ee ee ee

FREE book describes this fascinating
field; tells how you are registered FREE
in Lewis National Placement Service.

Mail the coupon NOW!

LEWIS HOTEL TRAINING SCHOOL

Room CB-2561, Washington 7, D. C.

Course Approved For All
Veteran and War Orphan Training

. Lewis Hotel Training School st
4 | “ae

Room CB-2561
Washington 7, D. C.

“Your Big Opportunity’’,
without obligation. I want to know how to qualify
for a well-paid position,

O Home Study

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Notice
the White

Dot ?

Everyone

does!

There’s a subtle bit of magic
that goes to work on
Sheaffer White Dot owners.

First, perhaps, the feeling
that all eyes see, recognize,
and respect the familiar
symbol of quality.

And then, as you use your
Sheaffer Snorkel Pen, you sense
a companionship. It feels
like you, it writes like you, it
shares your very thoughts.

Another nice thing about
Sheaffer’s White Dot Pen. It’s one
of life’s luxuries you can well
afford to give... even to yourself.

®

WATCH “THE BROTHERS” —CBS-TV, TUESDAY NIGHTS

© 1956, W. A. SHEAFFER PEN COMPANY, FORT MADISON, IOWA U.S.A. + IN CANADA:
GODERICH, ONTARIO + IN AUSTRALIA: MELBOURNE + IN GREAT BRITAIN: LONDON